Prana
by whatifellinlovewith
Summary: AU: "It still catches him off guard, the wave of curiosity like a weight lifted off his shoulders, the wave of inspiration so very sweet, a taste of something he hasn't had in forever. Kate Beckett. She's going to be a tough nut to crack." Castle and Beckett meet in yoga class. Entry for the winter ficathon 2015.
1. Chapter 1

**Prana: the energy that animates everything as well as breath, the life force sustaining the body.**

* * *

Signing up for this class wasn't even his idea.

His mother suggested it first, spouting something about how advantageous her acting students found it. And then his daughter jumped on board, telling him the medical benefits of yoga. Then his publisher and editor chimed in, speaking as though yoga is some miracle cure of writer's block.

He seriously doubts it is.

But it's not all bad. He steps into the studio, a large room with light wood floors and white walls, large windows that let light flood inside. His shirt clings to his chest, the cotton pulled tight over his shoulders, his shorts loose around his thighs, the blue yoga mat Alexis bought him secure under his arm.

And there's people, and unlike yoga, he _likes_ people. Especially when they're women dressed in sports bras and skin tight pants.

Plastering a grin on his face and straightening his spine, he steps even deeper into the room, towards a couple women standing near the windows, bright pink and purple yoga mats rolled out beneath their feet.

Blonde. Tall. Thin. Definitely his type.

He walks up to them, stepping into the small gap between the two women.

"Hello, ladies," he greets. "Ready to do some yoga?"

They both smile at him, the one standing to his right leaning towards him as she answers. "Oh yeah. Our friend Carol _swears_ by yoga. We figured we'd give it a shot, right Em?"

"Yup," confirms the other one, _Em,_ voice happy and chipper. "What about you…?"

"Rick," he offers, holding his hand out. She shakes it. "And my mother swears by this, too, but I don't know if it's going to be for me.." He flashes a grin, the one he saves for moments like these, for women who seem interested in him. "The beautiful women are a perk, though."

Em giggles, but it sounds forced, and so does her friend whose name he still doesn't know.

This is his element. Tight shirts and strange poses might not be, and he doubts he'll enjoy the actual class, but this…this he's used to. This he can do.

This is something he uses to hide all the time.

And so he sticks with them, talking, flirting. He learns their names, Emily and Savannah, and their interests and that they're both single. He sees the signs, too, that they're not _really_ interested in him. The forced laughter, the delayed reactions to things he says, the way nails bite into his skin when they touch his arm.

He sees the signs, and forces himself to ignore them, and by the time the instructor takes her place at the front of the room, he knows he'll never get beyond flirty conversation.

It's been months since he's gone beyond flirty conversation.

Swallowing back a sigh, he turns his attention to the instructor, a thin woman in a tanktop and a pair of black pants, her brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. She smiles, a smile that reminds him of his book tours, and asks them to find a place in the room.

He goes to the back of the room, near the doors, and rolls out his mat so it's perfectly aligned with the one in front of him, and listens.

The instructor, Miss Nichols, goes on about the health benefits of yoga, about what they'll be learning and what makes this a beginners class. And then she gets into the business side of things, about payment and missing classes and so on.

And that's when she walks in.

She has brown eyes and amber hair that's pulled back in a high ponytail. Her cotton shirt is tight around her stomach, the neckline high, covering the entirety of her chest.

She walks in with her head dipped, steps slow as she mumbles an apology he doubts anyone can hear. She looks…careful, shy, her shoulders square, tense, her eyes locked on the floor even as she rolls out her mat, takes the vacant spot next to him.

There's something about her, when she looks up and finds him staring, _watching,_ and glares that has him…intrigued.

And it makes something in him light afire, not with attraction or desire but _curiosity_ like he hasn't felt in years.

"Stop staring at me and pay attention," she grumbles.

There's something about her that makes him listen.

* * *

She shows up on time the second week, about five minutes before class begins.

He's avoiding Emily and Savannah, lingering near the door when she walks in, looking just as shy and closed off as last time. She rolls out her mat in the same place as she did last week, stands on the plum purple PVC alone, without looking up.

He wants to talk to her, wants to identify the colors of her eyes and see them sparkle when she smiles, but he remembers the daggers in them when she last saw him, remembers the anger.

She's closed off, practically curled up in a ball, but still standing on her feet.

If there's one thing he knows about her, one thing he can tell from here, it's that she doesn't want to talk. She's not here for company, for friends.

So he stays in his spot, leaning against the wall near the door and fights to keep his gaze off her.

He fails miserably.

Without saying a word, he pushes himself off the wall, adjusting his mat under his arm. He walks over to her, but doesn't say a word, keeping his eyes locked on the front of the room.

Her eyes dart to him, a flash of movement in his peripheral, and he fights against the stuttering of his heart.

She's beautiful, sharp features and high cheekbones and brown eyes with flecks of green and gold and he's about to open his mouth, to say something it hits him.

Recognition, so startlingly real it has him turning away, gasping a breath.

He knows the face, knows those eyes. They stared up at him from low quality prints, from the brightness of his computer screen.

Her hair had been swept back, knotted in a bun, a hat sitting perfectly straight on her head.

She's a cop. She's _the_ cop.

 _NYPD Detective Shot at Captain's Funeral._

She's that detective, the one who's picture went as quickly as it came, was everywhere for a week and then disappeared at though it didn't matter.

She's the detective who had him doing research and staying up late at night, reaching out to old friends, to people with connections for information he couldn't get. Her picture, her story, her bullet wound…it had inspired him.

And then it was gone, filled with dead ends and questions and the stories that came to mind were about a real person, about somebody wounded and recovering and he never wrote them down.

And now…here she is. Real and _alive_ and staring at the ground, smoothing a hand over her side, letting her fingers hover over her chest.

He looks away. Can't look at her anymore. Can't stop seeing the image of her in her dress blues, of her on the ground, a bullet in her chest.

She eyes him again, brows furrowed, curious, confused.

But he doesn't look back at her. He stares straight ahead, waits for class to start.

His heart's still racing, beating hard and fast in his chest when Miss Nichols takes her place at the front of the room.

He doesn't look back at her until he's watching her leave.

* * *

He can't stop staring.

She's here early this week, her mat in the same place as always. And she's stretching, leaning to one side and then the other before wincing, trailing her hand down her side.

He's seen her do that a lot, her hand splaying beneath her ribs, smoothing down her side, over the fabric of her shirt.

She looks pained every time she does it, and something about it breaks his heart.

He adjusts his shirt, tugging it down over his stomach, shifting the sleeves around his arms. The rolled up mat is pressed hard against his side, his elbow digging into the plastic that bends beneath the pressure.

He shouldn't be staring. He shouldn't be so consumed by this desire to know her and her story, by the scar he knows is hidden under the gray fabric of her shirt. But he is.

With a sigh, he takes a step forward, towards her, the wooden floor creaking softly beneath his weight. The sun streams through the windows, bright as ever, interrupted by lines of shade, one of which cuts across the back of her head.

"Hi."

She jumps, a visible, startled shiver running up her spine. Her arms cross over her chest, the corners of her eyes creasing as she winces.

"What do you want?" she asks. Her eyes dark, voice sharp with daggers that match those in her glare.

She doesn't want to talk, that much is obvious, but this is his element, his specialty.

"Class doesn't start for a few minutes and I figured you might want someone to talk to." He shrugs, adjusts the mat under his arm again. "I'm Rick, by the way."

Her jaw clenches, the tight seal of her mouth, the barely there protrusions at the sharp angle of her jaw. Her knuckles turn white, blood draining from them as she clenches her fists, presses them hard against her rib cage.

"I don't want someone to talk to," she says. Her voice is steady, almost flat, as she turns away from him and stares out the windows to her right. He follows her gaze, catches the gleam of sunlight off metal buildings.

His eyes travel back to her, to where her ponytail sits high on her head, amber hair caught in a black elastic band.

"I'm not look for anything deep…"

She turns back to him, brows furrowed, and refuses to fill the gap with her name.

He swallows back the disappointment, shrugging one shoulder. "Just, you know, small talk. What do you think about this weather? It's getting cooler out, finally starting to feel like fall."

She's quiet, staring up at him from where she stands. Her teeth catch her lip, and her eyes darken with hurt, pain that swirls in shades of brown..

"I _think_ it's September," she says finally, a sharp edge to every syllable, "which means it should be cooling down. And I _think_ I told you I don't want to talk to you. I _think_ you're a flirt. And I _know_ I'm not interested, so I _think_ you should learn to take a hint."

He opens his mouth, but before he can come up with a response, she's stepping away, bending down to retrieve her yoga mat and her shoes and walking away.

Her shoulders are tense, sharp lines starting at her neck, fading under the fabric of her top.

She rolls out her mat at the opposite end of the room, shooting him one last glare before she resumes her stretches, bending down to press her palms to the floor.

He wants to follow. Under any other circumstances, he would.

But he stays rooted in his place, curling his toes against the ground, pressing his hands against his thighs.

The line of shade cuts across her middle now, a line of dark slashing across light gray and black, across the place where she often tries to soothe her own pain.

He wants to follow, but he doesn't.

Instead, he leans down, mirroring her movements as he fights to brush his fingertips against his toes, fights the urge to watch as she presses her palm against her side, again, lets her fingers drift over the layer of cotton.

It still catches him off guard, the wave of curiosity like a weight lifted off his shoulders, the wave of inspiration so very sweet, a taste of something he hasn't had in forever.

And yet she won't even make small talk with him.

Kate Beckett. She's going to be a tough nut to crack.

* * *

 **A huge thank you goes to Lindsey for help brainstorming, outlining and for beta'ing because she is amazing.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Prana**

* * *

She's already there when he gets to class the fourth week, her mat rolled out beneath her feet. Her hair is thrown up in a bun this time, her feet bare, and when she twists her torso to stretch her abdominals and obliques, he can't help but notice that the neckline of her shirt is a little lower this week.

And something else is…different.

He regards her, brows furrowing with concentration as he attempts to work it out. As he attempts to figure it out based solely on three weeks of quick glances and one short conversation.

His mouth falls open, just a tad, when he realizes what it is.

She's _smiling._ Not wide and happy, but it's still there. The slight upturn of the corners of her mouth, the curve of her lips. She doesn't look happy, but rather simply…content.

She looks almost peaceful.

He contemplates going up to her, see if she's in a better mood today, if she's willing to make small talk. But he doesn't.

Instead, he goes to his usual spot, lingering at the back of the class. He toes off his shoes, arranges them next to his mat before stepping onto it, feeling the material give under his weight.

She's looking away, facing the front of the room, so he copies her movements, leaning to the side when she does, attempting to imitate her movements when she bends down and presses her hands to the floor.

And when she presses her hands to her hips, tilting her chin upwards in pride, he realizes something else that's different.

He's been watching her for three weeks, and he couldn't help but notice the way she flatten her palm against her side or wince whenever she had to twist or bend her torso. Occasionally, he even saw her face contort in pain bad enough to make her skip the next movement.

But today…

She hasn't touched her side once, not in the long minutes since he's arrived.

So, she's smiling and not in pain and he can't help but wonder why, can't help but wonder what changed so drastically between today and last week when she'd snapped at him.

He steps off the mat, mouth opening around the question before he thinks better of it and steps back.

They've been in the same class for all of three weeks and the few minutes so far today, have had _one_ conversation, which she clearly didn't enjoy. He can't go asking her stuff like that, can't confess to how much he's been observing her, can't share his suspicions that the pain written across her face over the last few weeks is related to the gunshot wound he knows she suffered.

He can't tell her any of that, not if he wants any chance at ever getting to know her.

Not if he ever wants to solve the mystery that is Detective Katherine Beckett.

So he bites his tongue, stays on his mat, limited to the small rectangle of space. And for good measure, to hide what was almost a complete lapse in judgement, he leans to the side, stretching an arm above his head, even though he's already done that particular stretch.

He stays standing on his mat afterwards, staring at the front of the room, at where the instructor should be standing, calling for their attention.

Except he can't keep himself from sneaking one last glance at her, just a flick of his eyes, barely long enough for him to catch…her staring back at him?

He does a double take, his eyes going wide to match the deer caught in headlights look in hers.

She clenches her jaw, opens her mouth and closes it again before looking away, her eyes landing on the floor, her cheeks turning pink.

He looks away, too, and stares at nothing until Miss Nichols appears at the front of the room, spouting instructions.

* * *

His eyes slide open as he releases one last, deep breath and Miss Nichols announces the end of this week's class.

He lifts his hands from his knees and uncrosses his legs, pushing himself up onto a knee before standing again. People are already up and leaving, small smiles on their faces. People who are more flexible, more agile that he is.

People like Kate.

He looks up, but she's still standing there, bending down and rolling up her mat slowly, adjusting it even when it doesn't need to be adjusted. She even lets it roll out again and restarts completely at one point.

Confusion laces through him, his brows furrowing as he continues to roll up his own mat and tucks it under his arm. He slips on his shoes, ignoring the laces, and when he looks up again, she's standing there, her yoga mat tucked under one arm, her shoes on, her free hand tugging her bun tighter.

The class is mostly empty. Miss Nichols is speaking to another student at the front of the room, and a few people are still struggling with their shoelaces or yoga mats. But still, it's mostly empty.

It feels almost like she waited for him, for this…almost privacy, for whatever reason.

And he won't complain.

"Hi," he greets, a smile coming across his face.

She smiles back at him, her cheeks tinging pink again. "Hi," she returns.

He adjusts the mat under his arm, leans in a little closer to her without thinking about it. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" he asks.

She reaches up again, swipes a non-existent strand of hair behind her ear. "I just wanted to…apologize," she says, words soft, hesitant, making his heart lift.

"Apologize?"

She nods. "I know I probably came off as rude…well, probably as a bitch, last week," she says. "And I wanted you to know it's nothing against you specifically. I'd just had a tough few days at work and wasn't in the mood to talk to anyone, really?"

He nods, swallowing back the questions on the tip of his tongue, swallowing back the irrational anxiety at the possibilities of what a _tough few days at work_ could mean for her.

For this stranger with a familiar face and a broken smile.

"Oh?" he breathes. "And what does a tough few days at work entail for K– you?"

It's a thinly veiled, rather obvious way of asking what she does for living, a feeble attempt to get her to tell him before he accidentally slips up and confesses his knowledge. But she doesn't tell him. She doesn't say anything, her face falling.

And he silently wishes he could take back the question.

"You don't have to tell me," he says. "I was just…curious."

She blinks and shakes her head, her eyes refocusing. She smiles again, but even he can tell it's fake. He really wishes it wasn't.

"No, it's fine," she says, even though it quite obviously isn't. "Just the usual, you know, problems with co-workers, a lot of paperwork, lack of caffeine." She shrugs, her shoulders stiff.

It's a lie, and a horrible one at that, but he forces a smile and a nod. "Yeah," he says. "So this week was better?"

She stares at him again, still tense, before shrugging. "It was the usual, everyday. Not bad, but not good," she offers. "Better than last week."

He wants to ask again, wants to know the truth. Wants to know if she was shot at or held at gunpoint, if a case hit too close to home, if the pain sometimes etched across her face here, in yoga class, got in her way.

But he doesn't ask. It's not his place.

He flashes a smile instead, hoping it's looks even somewhat genuine, hoping it can hide the way his heart thunders in his chest.

"So, does this mean we can talk about stupid things like the weather before class, on the good weeks at least?"

She frowns, swallowing thickly. Her eyes fall to the floor for a minute, her chest heaving with a slow deep breath and the apology is on the tip of his tongue, but she looks back up.

"I know who you are," she says. "You're that mystery writer, always on Page Six with a different woman on his arm."

 _Oh._

He didn't think of that. That she would know him, recognize him like he recognizes her. That she would know the person on Page Six, the playboy image that gives him confidence he can't find anywhere else.

"And I've seen you flirting with other people here," she continues, drawing his attention back to her. "I just…don't think you should waste your time on me."

"Waste my time?"

It comes out too fast, sounding almost horrified. Which he _is,_ because somehow he already knows that she will never be a _waste of time,_ that the mystery behind her is worth solving.

"Yeah," she breathes.

She doesn't seem to see it that way, though.

"I'm not looking for a fling or to have my picture in the paper," she tells him. "I'm not looking for…anything right now."

"Not even a friend?"

Her mouth slams shut, her eyes going wide. He sees her muscles working as she clenches her jaw, and she starts fiddling with the fabric of her shirt, pulling it back so the neckline sits higher on her chest.

Finally, she blinks, her lips parting around her answer. "I have enough friends."

And then she leaves, her shoulders still tense, her steps too fast, edging on a run until she's out of the room, until he can no longer hear her quiet footsteps.

She ran away. And it's his fault.

At this rate, he'll never get to know the story behind the pain—

"Everything okay, Mr. Castle?"

He turns, finds Miss Nichols standing there, a welcoming smile on her face.

No, everything's not okay, but he smiles back at her anyway, nods his head once. "Yeah, everything's fine."

Her smile widens. "Well then, I'll see you next week?"

As if there is any way he could back out of this class now.

"Definitely."

* * *

 **Lindsey is amazing and deserves a ton of thanks.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Prana**

* * *

He gets to class before her this week, and something that feels oddly like disappointment weighs in his chest, heavy and unwelcomed and confusing.

But he pushes it down, swallows it back as he steps deeper into the room, finding the place he's silently claimed as his own. His spot near the back of the class that allows him to watch and enjoy and not feel too self-conscious himself.

He toes off his shoes, setting them to the side before standing again.

There's time to spare, a good ten minutes before class is set to begin. Without thinking about it, he finds himself twisting to the side, his hands finding his hips. It's only when he's leaning down to touch his toes that he realizes he's copying the stretches he observed her doing last week.

He makes himself stop, standing up straight again, his arms pressing hard against his sides, hands curling into fists at his thighs.

It's been five weeks. And she's just a beautiful stranger with a familiar face. A woman who doesn't want a relationship or a friend.

Another woman who doesn't _really_ want him.

He almost chokes on the thought, and it forces him to slap a hand over his mouth and smother a cough. It's that disappointment again.

It's completely out of place. It's stupid, really. But he finds himself biting into his thumb to force the bitter reminder of his shortcomings back, to distract himself with physical pain.

His hand falls back to his side and his eyes open again, his gaze darting around the room. He hasn't spoken to many people in the class. Nobody at all, really, besides Em and Savannah from the very first week.

Part of him really doesn't want to talk to anyone, his mother's words from before he started this yoga class playing in his mind.

 _You have to stop looking for validation from others, Richard._

He swallows back the sigh that wells in his chest, his eyes darting around the room again. His gaze drifts across the buildings standing tall outside the windows, the gleams of metals and the tinted windows that reflect the sunlight. And then he turns to the front of the class, where Miss Nichols' mat is rolled up, but she is nowhere to be found.

There's only five minutes left. A little bit of small talk couldn't hurt, right?

He walks up to another pair of women, two brunettes whose mats are in the middle row, side by side, intending to ask about the weather, or to pretend he forgot something from last week's class.

That doesn't happen.

It's like instinct. When one of the women smiles at him, that flirty smile he knows too well, he slips into his own flirty mode, leaning in too close, smiling too much, talking with his hands.

Her name is Tiffany, the woman who flirts with him, who says his name way too often and reaches forward to touch his arm when she tells him about why she enrolled.

It's another one of those _my friend loves it_ stories, and he gives her the same answer he gave on the first week.

"My mother loves it, but I don't think it's right for me."

Except his mother doesn't actually do yoga, and she certainly didn't send him here because she _loves_ it.

 _You are a talented man, a good man and a good father. Why can't that be enough for you? Why do you have to go after these groupies and have all these flings to prove that you're worthy?_

"You okay, Rick?" asks Tiffany.

He blinks, and it takes him a moment to realize that he zoned out, into the memories of his mother, his daughter, Gina and Paula all telling him why he should join.

 _You should do yoga. Or meditation. It's great for grounding yourself and finding self-worth._

"Uh, yeah," he answers. Except he isn't. Not really. "Just, uh, mental images of my mother doing yoga. Not exactly pleasant."

She laughs, reaching forward to touch his arm again. Her hand drifts down to his elbow.

It's only then that he notices the ring, and mentally curses himself for not realizing sooner.

"But, you know what else isn't pleasant? The aches and pains after doing this class. I think I'm going to go get some stretches in," he says.

It's a lame excuse, a lame out, but she smiles and nods, waving goodbye as though he isn't just walking ten feet to his own yoga mat.

Moments like these make him think his mother might be right.

Standing on his mat again, he stretches his sides, more for appearance than anything else. One hand presses hard against the base of his rib cage, the other raised above his head as he leans to the side, and then the other, lingering there for a little too long.

His vision blurs, eyes unfocusing, until Miss Nichols appears at the front of the class, that familiar, friendly smile spread across her face.

Kate still isn't here.

Miss Nichols asks them all to sit down, explains that they're going to practice their breathing before getting into some more basic poses.

He drops down and crosses his legs in front of him, noticing that his flexibility has already improved since the first week.

It's just as Miss Nichols is telling them to close their eyes that Kate arrives, rushing, her steps so quick they're almost frantic.

She's mumbling apologies as she drops a duffel bag at the back of the room. She toes off her shoes as quickly as she can, even though Miss Nichols is assuring her that it's okay, and rolls her mat out in the space next to him.

He watches as she sits down, crosses her legs easily. Her hands fall her her thighs, and she offers Miss Nichols a smile as though telling her to continue with the class.

He's smiling, too, because Kate is back in the spot next to him and this day is starting to look up again.

And then he notices the streaks of dried tears on her cheeks.

* * *

He doesn't know what drives him to do it, doesn't know why he stops her after class by wedging his body between her and the bag she came in with.

He knows it might be a mistake. But he also knows she was crying before she got here, and that, for some reason, he wants to make sure she leaves happy.

So he stands next to her duffel bag as she rolls up her mat, waiting for her to turn around, waiting for the eye roll he _knows_ will come.

It does, just as she turns towards him. Her mat is caught under one arm, her running shoes back on her feet.

He forces a smile, forces back the voice in his head telling him she doesn't want him, not even as a friend, and that he should just leave her alone.

"You know what I think I want them to do with my body when I die?"

She eyes him, her glare shooting daggers. "I thought I told you I didn't need any more friends," she says.

He ignores her.

"I think I want to be cryogenically frozen," he tells her.

Her mouth falls open, her eyes going wide. Words seem to curl at the tip of her tongue before she swallows them back. She crosses her arms over her chest.

"I really should be going," she says. "Since the class is over and all."

He ignores that, too. "Do you know why I want to be cryogenically frozen?" he asks.

She sighs, loud and heavy, exasperated, but her arms fall to her sides in defeat. "Why do you want to be cryogenically frozen?"

He can't help the smile that spreads across his face. "Because I think it would be _super_ cool to come back hundreds of years in the future and to be able to say I lived back in the two-thousands," he answers, the words having already been on the tip of his tongue.

It makes her laugh. Well, scoff, really. "You do realize that, by the time they could revive your frozen body, there would already be a bunch of people back from the dead who also lived in the two thousands, right?" she says.

She's teasing, and yet his face falls, because of course he _hadn't_ thought about that.

And she must notice, because her face goes serious, too, something like regret flashing in her eyes for half a second. "But, hey, I guess I hope you…make it. To the future, you know."

He smiles at that. "Oh, yeah?"

She doesn't give him an answer, neither words nor the simple nod of her head.

"What about you? What do you want them to do with your dead body?"

This time, she looks away, her eyes falling to the floor, but not quick enough. He catches the glimmer of grief in her eyes, the pain that he used to write about in his books, the pain that drove people–

 _Oh._

She's a cop. She's a cop, but also a beautiful woman who probably grew up in Manhattan, with money.

She's a cop with a story, a story he _really_ shouldn't be thinking about right now.

So he pretends he didn't notice, that he didn't see her pain, didn't see the person behind the fake smiles and what might be the reason for the tears that had dried on her cheeks.

"So?"

She looks back up and shrugs one shoulder. "I was thinking a more traditional route, like being buried," she answers.

It's probably meant to be a joke, but knowing that she was shot in the chest just a few months ago makes it seem like it really _isn't._

Because now he can't help but wonder if she's thought about this, if her brush with death forced her to think it through, to make plans…just in case.

He really didn't think this conversation through.

"So, can I have my bag now?"

He blinks, his eyes refocusing on her, and she's staring up at him, brows furrowed, her arms now crossed over her chest.

"Not yet," he answers.

She rolls her eyes again. "Why not?"

He shrugs. "Because you know what I want to happen to me when I die, and I _sort of_ know what you want to happen to you," he answers. "I think that's grounds for friendship."

"Is that what this was?"

His brows furrow. "Is _what_ what this was?" he asks.

"A ploy to get me to agree to be your friend?"

The accusation hurts, even though it really shouldn't.

"I'm not trying to manipulate you," he insists.

She frowns. "Then why can't you accept that I'm not looking for anything?" she asks.

Because he genuinely wants to get to know her. Because talking to her is fun. Because she intrigues him more than anyone else has in years.

They're all answers he feels he can't say.

So he shrugs one shoulder. "Because I think everyone can use more friends," he answers. "I'm not asking for your life story, just for conversations before and maybe after class."

She stares at him, her eyes tracing his features, gleaming with skepticism. And then she sighs, her shoulders sagging.

" _Fine._ "

He smiles, can't help it. "Well then," he says. "You know what's a great start to a budding friendship?"

"What?"

"Knowing each other's name."

She laughs, her head dipping as though to hide the upturn of her lips. "It's Kate," she says. "Kate Beckett."

He grins, thrusting his hand forward for her to take. She does, her fingers curling around his slowly, carefully. He shakes her hand, and her fingers tighten around his.

"Rick Castle," he says. "And it's a pleasure to meet you, Kate."

* * *

 **As always, a huge thank you goes to Lindsey for all her help.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Prana**

* * *

She's late.

Her shoulders are tense and her steps rushed and her cheeks stained pink as she rushes to roll her mat out next to his.

Miss Nichols doesn't seem bothered by the interruption; she simply looks up from the student she's helping and nods at Kate.

They must have some sort of agreement, he notes, since Miss Nichols has never commented on Kate being late.

He tries not to watch, tries to focus on his breathing and keeping his legs straight, as Kate toes off her shoes and sets them aside before dropping into position easily.

And then she winces, and balances on one hand as the other comes up to gently rub at her chest. She rubs a circle between her breasts, her eyes screwing shut, and doesn't breath the entire time, until her palm is pressed against the floor again, and her eyes slide open.

To him. Before he has the chance to look away.

He tries to hide it. Doesn't need her to catch her staring. There's already a bunch of women out there who think he's a creep, a failure, something in between or both, and the last thing he needs is to add her to the list.

But he knows it's too late, and his sigh of disappointment in himself gets caught in his chest when Miss Nichols reminds them all to breath.

Because now she probably thinks he's staring at her chest to stare at her breasts, that he's some kind of perv using this yoga class as an excuse to stare at women.

That everything he told her about wanting to be her friend last week was a complete lie.

And she's going to take him for it. He has no doubt she would be snapping at him right now, if the class wasn't in session, if everyone else wasn't silent.

Sucking in a breath, more to slow his mind then because Miss Nichols is still telling them to inhale and exhale, he shifts forward until he's almost flat with the floor and upwards into the cobra position.

He sneaks a glance at her, finds her staring back at him.

Her brows are furrowed, lips twisted into a frown, her eyes locked on his face, studying him in some odd, unfamiliar way.

He's about to apologize, to whisper the words into the inches of space between her mat and his, just so she knows that's not what he meant, not what he was trying to do.

But she looks away before he can. She sucks in a breath, her eyes going wide as she stares straight ahead.

Even though she's not looking at him anymore, he's still looking at her. And he sees the flash of recognition that flashes in her eyes.

Before he can figure out what it means, Miss Nichols is telling them to change positions again, and his hands press harder against the ground as he shifts.

Kate doesn't look at him again for the rest of the lesson, seems to avoid him at all costs.

He can't blame her.

He's horrible with women, even at being their friends.

* * *

She lingers after class. Her mat is rolled up and trapped between her arm and her side, her shoes are on, the laces pulled tight and tied in a neat bow and there's no reason for her to stay. But she is.

She's standing there, right beside the spot where her mat was just laying on the floor, fiddling with her hair and the neckline of her t-shirt. Her teeth are worrying her lip, her eyes darting between him and the rest of the room almost nervously.

And if it's not an invitation to approach her, he doesn't know what is.

Her eyes dart to him the second he approaches her, the lock of her gaze making him pause for a second. She's still biting at her lip, and now her free hand is fiddling with the fabric of her shirt, pulling the hem down and the neckline up over her collarbone.

"Hi," he says, the word soft as he takes another step towards her. "You, uh, okay?"

Her brows furrow in confusion, and she adjusts the mat under her arm once again. "Why wouldn't I be?"

He opens his mouth, but his answer dies on the tip of his tongue.

He's not supposed to know who she is. He's not supposed to know that she was shot. He's not supposed to know why she rubs at her chest, why some movements make her wince, why the necklines of her shirt is so high.

"Rick?"

She's staring at him, the confusion in her eyes fading to worry and he clamps his mouth shut before realizing he has to say _something._

"You looked, uh, tense when you came in," he tells her. "And you showed up late, and I just thought maybe you had a hard day at work or something."

Her gaze softens, her shoulders sagging visibly even though he hadn't realized how square they had been. Her hand, which had been tracing the spiral of her yoga mat, falls her side and her eyes fall to the floor.

"Oh," she breathes. "Well, I'm fine."

"You sure?"

 _That_ has her head darting back up, her gaze meeting his once again. She's biting at her lip, and playing with the hem of her shirt again.

And he might have only known her for a few weeks, might have only spoken to her a handful of times within that span, but he knows she's not okay.

She was shot in the chest just a few months ago. How could she be okay?

"I'm fine," she repeats.

"You know, one aspect of this whole friendship thing we're trying is being honest," he tells her. It makes her frown, her fingers curling into a fist around the fabric of her shirt. "You can tell me if you had a crappy day without turning me into a therapist."

She stares at him, and he half expects her to walk away. She seems like the kind of person who would walk away from a conversation she doesn't like.

From a person she doesn't like.

But she doesn't. She stays, blinks once then twice before shaking her head as though trying to clear her mind.

"You don't really care–"

"Yes, I do," he interrupts. "I told you, I want to be your friend. I care if you have a bad day."

She stares at him long enough to blink another three times and then lets out a sigh, a soft chuckle bubbling up from her chest.

"Fine," she says. "You're right. Today sucked."

He frowns at that, and it makes her laugh again.

He didn't want to be right. He just wanted her to open up to him.

"Sucked…for you?"

Her wince flashes back into his mind, the way her palm had pressed against her chest so vivid in his head. He remembers the way she plays her palm across her side and smoothes it down along her shirt. And the pained look she gets on her face when she shifts from one position to the next.

He really hopes she wasn't in pain.

But it seems she wasn't, because she's shrugging one shoulder and offering him the slightest shake of her head. "A bit, I guess," she answers. "But moreso for my coworker," she continues. "He, uh, made what he construes as a mistake about a year ago and it came back to haunt him this week."

"Are you guys close?"

She shrugs again. "Yeah," she breathes. "As close as coworkers can be, I guess. On better days, he likes to tease me, but on days like today… Let's just say, I trust him with my life."

With her life.

He can't think of time when he ever trusted someone that much.

"What?"

He blinks, realizes he was staring.

"Nothing," he says, the word rushed. It comes out too quickly. It comes out defensively. "I was just thinking that it probably takes a lot for you to trust someone with your life."

That makes her brows furrow again, her eyes flashing as her lips twist into a frown. Her hand falls from her waist to hang at her side.

He said something wrong.

Why does he _always_ have to say something wrong?

Oh, right, because he's _him._

"Sorry," he breathes. "I just…I've never trusted anyone that way. It must be…nice to have someone you can depend on like that."

He expects a response. Something witty or something angry or something indifferent. He really doesn't care which. Just…something.

But nothing comes.

She's _still_ staring at him. No longer confused, more…lost. In her own mind. Like she's trying to make a decision, or remembering something so vividly she's trapped in the past instead of the present.

Something like that. Something that makes him want to have his hand in front of her face and make her blink, snap her back to the present because neither option seems great.

He doesn't, though. He would probably end up regretting it, anyway.

Besides, she snaps out of it soon enough, and the flash in her eyes tells him he was right. She was trying to make a decision.

Because it's certainty that lights up the hazel eyes staring back at him.

"We have to," she says, the words strong and sure.

"Have to what?"

"Trust each other with our lives," she answers. "In our line of work, it can be the difference between life and death."

Oh. _Oh._

She's opening that door, leaving it wide between them. She's letting him ask and putting herself out there as she does so.

Her smile is barely there, but encouraging. Welcoming him to the cross the threshold, to ask the question he already knows the answer to.

Does she know he knows the answer?

He forces that thought back. It doesn't matter if she does, because now she's _letting_ him know, letting him find out. She's opening up to him.

She's giving this friendship thing a try, and smiling as she does so.

So he takes the step, crosses the threshold. Asks the question.

"Oh? And, uh, what do you do?"

She nods. Slow and accepting as she takes in the step they took. Her hand twists around the fabric of her shirt, her arm tightening around her yoga mat.

She's willing to share. She's willing to open up.

"I'm a detective. Homicide," she says, her eyes locked on his. "But you already knew that."

He can't deny it, not when she's staring at him like that, her eyes alight with certainty. Because she _knows._ Of course she knows. He hasn't really been subtle about it.

At least she doesn't seem angry about it.

She actually seems happy, relieved. And he can't figure out why.

He's clueless, as always.

His lips part, but he clamps his mouth closed when her smile widens, her gaze drifting around the empty room before landing on his again.

"And you're a writer," she says softly.

His eyes widen instantly, his mouth falling open once again.

 _She knows._ She knows him. She knows who he is.

Nobody knows who he is anymore.

But she does.

And she's reaching forward, resting her free hand on his arm for half a second before letting it fall to her side. Her smile fades, and her gaze flickers with uncertainty.

He's still staring at her, unable to speak, unable to move. Like an idiot.

And she steps away from him, her cheeks turning pink as her chin dips towards her chest. She tugs at her shirt again, adjusts her mat one last time before meeting his gaze once more.

"I already knew that," she says, the words so soft he barely catches them.

But he does hear them. Hears her.

He blinks, shaking himself out of it, his lips parting around words, even though his mind hasn't caught up.

But she's already gone.

* * *

 **Once again, a huge thank you goes to Lindsey for all her help.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Prana**

* * *

She's angry.

Not with him. Definitely not with him. Because she's been angry since she showed up.

Her movements are sharp, but not tense like they are when she's frustrated, when she's in pain. Just…sharp, almost violent as she twists and stretches, her arms swinging around her.

And it's…odd.

He's associated her with strength. He's done so since he realized who she was and what she'd been through. What she'd survived. That's never been an issue.

And he knows that she could hurt him, hurt anyone, if they hurt her. He's been scared of saying the wrong thing, of pushing too far, for that very reason.

She's a cop. She has a gun somewhere. And she probably knows how to hide a body so it's never found.

But he's also associated her with grace. With this woman with long brown hair, always pulled back in a tight ponytail, or a tighter bun. She moves with ease, gliding from one position to the next without so much as a pause, in ways his lack of flexibility doesn't allow. And she walks with a sway to her hips that's practiced. Precise.

She's always so very precise about everything she does.

But today, her mat is rolled out next to his and she twists her middle, hands on her hips, before reaching up and spinning her arms in large circles.

It's not practiced. It's not precise.

It's so far off precise that he stumble backwards to avoid getting the back of her hand to the face.

She freezes, her arm hovering at her sides, her eyes going wide as he chokes out a cough.

"Sorry," she breathes, her arms falling. "I wasn't paying attention."

That much was obvious.

But he cracks a smile, shrugs one shoulder. "No harm done," he says. "Luckily for _you_ , I am great at dodging things coming at my face."

She laughs, just a soft puff of air that she tries to trap behind her hand. "Doesn't look that way in the papers," she says. "Looks like you really _enjoy_ when things, specifically women, go for your face."

 _Oh._ Right.

She knows who he is. And unlike most of them, she isn't a groupie.

He's not quite sure how to deal with this.

"That's, uh, different," he tries. "It's their _lips_ coming at my face, or _my_ lips, to be exact. This was your _hand,_ coming at my nose."

Her smile fades, and her cheeks turn pink at his words, her chin dipping to press against her chest, to let her eyes lock on the purple of her yoga mat.

"Yeah," she breathes. "Sorry, again. I was just…distracted."

"Oh?"

He sucks in a slow breath, his hands curling into fists at his sides. She keeps staring at the floor, her shoulders tense, the legs of her muscles tight as she pushes herself onto her toes and drops onto her heels over and over again.

She's nervous. Because of him.

That's never good.

But they're friends now. Sort of. She hasn't said _no_ to the friendship thing, and they're kind of doing small talk, so it's fair to assume they're at least friend _ly_.

"Distracted with what?"

She shrugs. Lifting her head to look at him for half a second before turning towards the windows. He follows her gaze, his eyes locking on the building that looks so close, just another part of the city.

"Case stuff."

"Do you want to talk about it? After class, I mean?"

She turns to look at him one more time, her eyes wide, before her gaze steels. It's a glare. He recognizes it.

But the pink of her cheeks that joins it…that's unfamiliar.

And then she looks away, and starts stretching again. Her eyes fall closed, but her cheeks stay pink.

It's not a no.

* * *

He half expects her to flee as soon as class ends, to escape with the story of her distraction with her. A secret, to never be heard by him, or, well, by anybody else.

But she doesn't.

She doesn't linger, or move slowly, but she also doesn't run. He's mirroring her movements next to her when she slips on her running shoes and steps aside to roll up her yoga mat. She lifts it from the ground, wedges it under her arm, and turns to leave.

He follows.

And she only glances at him, a question shining bright in her eyes, once on the walk from the middle of the yoga studio to the double doors that lead to the hallway.

He falls into step at her aside, something about matching her pace so effortless. Natural.

But he shakes that thought out of his head, forbidding it from returning.

They're just starting this friendship thing. And she doesn't even want that. She would never want…more.

Ever.

She hits the button to call the elevator and finally turns to face him. Her shoulder presses against the wall, against the metal edging around the elevator doors.

A grin spreads across her face, and her hazel eyes sparkle as she crosses her arms over her chest.

"Are you going to ask?" she says.

He shrugs "Ask what?"

With a tilt of her head, she motions to the doors they just stepped through. "What had me so distracted I just about slapped you in the face."

"I think it was technically more of a backhand," he says, only slightly teasing.

That makes her roll her eyes. "Whatever," she breathes. "Either way, are you going to ask?"

He shrugs. "I figured it was a tough case or something."

She shakes her head at him. "Not that bad," she says. "I've definitely seen worse."

"Oh?"

Her eyes darken, smile fading to the serious press of her lips, to the tightening of her grip on her arms.

"That's not a conversation for today…for _ever_ ," she tells him. "I don't like talking about them."

"Understandable," he agrees, just as the elevator doors slide open beside them.

She eyes the lift for half a second before stepping on. He follows her, taking his place by her side, leaning over to hit the button for the ground floor.

And the doors slide closed again, reflecting the image of them, standing side by side.

It looks oddly…right.

She's a few inches shorter than he is. And she's beautiful. Her shirt is pulled tight over her chest, and a yoga pants are form fitting down her thighs before flaring out slightly at her ankles. Her arms are crossed over her chest, and her hair is pulled back into a high ponytail, revealing the sharp angles of her jaw, the column of her neck.

Even in the faded reflection, her eyes are bright, locked on him.

And he's him. He doesn't deserve her. He would never deserve her, as beautiful and strong and _real_ as she is.

Besides, nobody like her would ever want somebody like him.

It still looks right, though.

"So?"

He blinks, and shakes that thought of his head as he turns to face her. She's staring back at him, brows raised in expectation, head cocked to the side, her arms crossed over her chest.

"So, why are you so desperate to tell me why you were so angry?"

She rolls her eyes, but her smile falls to a frown. Her grip on arm tightens, and he imagines her grip on her rib cage does, too.

"Do you not want to know?" she asks. "Because I assumed this friendship thing included conversation and all that but if not…"

His brows furrow. "I thought you had friends," he breathes. "In fact, you told me, and I quote, 'I have enough friends' back when I first suggested that we could try our hand at this friendship thing."

That's exactly what she told him.

And even then he doubted it was true.

"I do have friends," she says. Her tone is flat, defensive. "You're the only one that's here right now."

He blinks, and her gaze falls again before returning to his, hard as steel and shooting daggers. Sending a message he knows he shouldn't ignore.

 _Don't push._

So he doesn't.

"So, Kate, what had you so distracted this morning?"

She smiles, and her shoulders sag in relief, and his heart flips. Her gaze drops as she turns away from him and lets her arms fall to her sides. "Have you ever had to work with someone you really don't see eye to eye with?"

He shrugs. "Well, my publisher doubles as my second ex-wife, so, yeah."

That has her chuckling, and turning to face him, her eyes alight with amusement. "Really?" she asks, and he nods in response. "How did that happen?"

"She was my publisher before we got married, and stayed my publisher after we got divorced," he tells her. "It was tense for a while, but we're pretty good now. Our professional relationship was never a reflection of our personal relationship."

"Oh," she says. "Well, that's good. I'm glad you guys can still work together, despite everything that might have happened between you two."

He nods, forces a smile. "So, you had to work with someone you didn't see eye to eye with?"

Because he _really_ doesn't want to talk about Gina. Or his job. At all.

"Yeah," she answers. " _Serena Kaye_. She's an insurance investigator. And a thief. Well, she says it's technically not stealing, but–"

"As an officer of the law, you can't support what she does?"

She nods. "Exactly." She falls silent for a while, before turning back to him. "You would have liked her though. Blonde. Pretty. Flirty. She's definitely your type."

He frowns. "You think that's my type?"

She shrugs. "Isn't it?"

It isn't.

But it kind of is, he supposes. In some off way. Gina is blonde, and his last few…conquests were, too. But it's _not_ his type.

It just so happens to be the kind of women who approach him nowadays. And that has nothing to do with their hair colors, or appearance.

But Kate doesn't need to know that.

"No," he says. "It isn't."

Except apparently his mouth thinks she _does_ need to know.

"I mean, yes, most people I'm seen with in the papers are blonde, and Gina, my last wife, was blonde, but it's not my _type._ "

She rolls her eyes. "That sentence truly proves your point."

"I'm serious, Kate."

Her shoulders sag, and she turns to look at him again. "Okay," she says. "Then prove it. What evidence do you have that blonde and pretty _isn't_ your type?"

He shrugs. "We attend a yoga class _full_ of women, many of which are pretty and _blonde,_ and I'm standing here with you," he says. "And you just so happen to _not_ be blonde."

"Does that make me _your type_?" she counters, her teeth finding her lip for a second before she releases a breath.

Playful. Almost flirty.

And _please don't let this elevator ride end now._

"If the shoe fits," he whispers.

Her cheeks turn pink and she looks away. She reaches up, combing her fingers through her ponytail and drawing it over her shoulder, as though that will hide her blush.

"It doesn't," she says.

As though she has no idea that it so _does._

Before he can open his mouth to speak, to try and alleviate the awkwardness that's suddenly filled the small space of the elevator, when they come to a stop.

She murmurs something he doesn't hear as she starts walking away, her steps rushed as she heads for the double doors leading the the busy sidewalk.

His heart sinks as she pushes the door open, steps forward so one foot is outside the building.

He said too much. He always says too much.

Of course she doesn't want to be his type.

But then he pauses at the door, still holding it open, and offers him a smile.

"Goodbye" she says, just loud enough for him to hear from across the room.

A smile stretches across his face, and he nods happily. "See you next week," he agrees.

She rolls her eyes, staying still just long enough for him to run and catch up to her. She lets the door close behind them both, metal clinking against metal as they step into pedestrian traffic.

"Can you not just say goodbye, like a normal person?"

He shrugs. "'See you next week' is more hopeful," he says. "You, more than anyone, should understand the need for hope."

He doesn't miss the way she reaches up and rests her hand on her chest, over the scar, the evidence of her shooting.

Her gaze meets his, dark and somber.

Not hopeful at all.

"Goodbye, Castle," she says.

And then she turns around and walks away.

* * *

 **As always, a huge thank you goes to Lindsey for all her help.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Prana**

* * *

"So, a ghost killer?"

She jumps, the hands resting on her knees flying up, one to her chest, the other to her hip where he imagines her gun usually sits. Her fingers curl around nothing before her shoulders sag in realization and her chin dips to her chest. Her palm presses flat against the yoga mat.

" _Castle._ "

"Sorry," he breathes. "I didn't mean to, uh, startle you." His gaze darts downwards, to where her fingers are curling, trying to clench into a fist.

Great.

She was calm. Relaxed. She had been for the entirety of the class, from when she stepped into the room with an easy sway to her hips, to just now, when her breathing was even and her eyes were closed. She was…peaceful. And beautiful.

And he ruined it.

"Yeah," she says, "well, as a cop, we're trained to always be on edge." She sucks in a slow breath and presses her hands against the floor, shifting slightly so she's facing him instead of the front of the room. "When did class end?"

He shrugs. "A few minutes ago," he answers. "Not all that long, trust me. You just seemed so relaxed and you never do, so I suppose Miss Nichols didn't want to interrupt you."

She smiles, a puff of laughter bubbling from between her lips. "And you were perfectly fine with it?"

"I might not know you well, _Beckett_ ," he pauses, watching her roll her eyes, "but I figured you wouldn't have liked being the last one here, meditating."

"Well, you…figured correctly," she says. "And you don't have to use my last name."

"You use mine."

"Force of habit."

He smiles at that. At the reminder that she's a cop, of her job, of everything she's been through and everything she's survived…that he knows of.

And yet somehow, she's able to relax.

And he's _great_ at ruining it for her.

He blinks, forcing that thought back as his head dips. She's moving, pressing her hands hard against the floor and pushing herself carefully onto her knees. She's graceful, moves with ease as she stands, barely a foot of space between them.

Part of him wants to take a step back, give her her space, but she doesn't move either.

She just…smiles.

So he smiles back.

"I assume you caught the guy?" he says, the words soft, and yet loud in the otherwise empty room. In the tiny bit of space between them.

"The killer?"

"The ghost killer."

She rolls her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest as she turns away from him. It forces one shoulder closer to him. Her…closer to him.

"The killer wasn't a ghost, Castle," she tells him. "It was a perfectly normal human being."

He hums, waiting for her eyes to meet his again. They do, green and gold and lit up with something wonderful. Something _beautiful._

She's beautiful.

And he needs to stop getting swept up by her, because he'll never have more than this, more than weekly conversation before or after yoga class.

More than basic friendship.

"What?" she says.

It breaks him from his thoughts, makes him realize that he's been silent for far too long. That words are dead on his tongue and she's waiting for an answer.

"Do you not believe me, _Castle_?"

Oh. He can work with that.

Besides, she doesn't seem like the kind of person who believes in ghosts. She's a cop. She's analytical, logical. Like Alexis. She definitely doesn't believe in ghosts.

He can definitely work with that.

"Nope," he says. "You're a government employee, they pay you to keep the truth a secret."

"I thought that was the conspiracy theory about aliens," she counters, her head dipping back, the corner of her lips quirking upwards.

He shrugs. "Aliens and ghosts. And Bigfoot and CIA secrets and _Men in Black_."

"You realize _Men in Black_ was fiction, right?"

He reaches up, and waves his hand in front of him. She's standing so close that it could very well brush against her face, or land on her shoulder, or wipe a strand of hair behind her ear.

And he expects her to be uncomfortable, to step away. But she doesn't.

He can't for the life of him figure out why.

"Not important," he says. "The point is that the government keeps secrets from us _civilians_ , and as an employee of the government, you must also keep said secrets."

Her smile falls, not because she's upset. That much he can tell by the sparkle that stays in her eyes, the bright flecks of gold that disappear when she's angry, the bright light of joy that he doesn't usually see from her.

That his mother says has been missing in his eyes since–

"You caught me."

He blinks, and his vision falls back into focus, two images of her sliding together to capture the seriousness of her gaze, the pinched line of her lips.

"After my team realized that the murder could not have been committed by a mortal, high power government agents swept into the precinct, took all our work on the case and left," she tells him, voice low but serious, but her eyes still bright. "They're trying to hide the truth. Castle, I'm warning you, the story that will be released for _civilians_ to read will definitely _not_ be the true story."

He knows she's messing with him, that much is obvious when the corner of her mouth lifts to a small smile, teasing and yet sweet and she looks like she's having _fun._

She never looks like she's having fun.

So he plays along.

"I knew it!"

She grins. "Yes, you did," she says, and then she reaches forward to rest her hand on his arm.

He fights the instinct to jump, swallows back the surprised stutter of breath that wells in his chest at the touch.

They don't touch. They never touch.

"You must be one of the crazy ones," she adds.

He swallows back his emotions as he feigns a gasp, pressing his hand hard against his chest. "You just told me my theory is correct, and now you're calling me crazy?"

She shakes her head, ignoring him as her eyes narrow. "If you tell anyone the truth, Castle, I _will_ have to kill you."

And then, after all this time, she steps back, puts the space between them that's usually there.

That _should_ be there.

For the sake of his _stupid_ brain remembering that this is just _friendship_ and nothing more. That she doesn't want anything more.

"You would never kill me," he teases.

She shrugs. "I've been tempted."

He sucks in a gasp, forces his eyes to go wide. "Katherine Beckett," he says, "you are an officer of the law and you have debated killing _me,_ an innocent man?"

She shrugs again, turning away from him this time. "Just be glad I don't bring my gun to yoga."

He smiles.

And he lingers while she rolls up her mat and slips on her shoes. She does up the laces quickly, easily, and tucks her mat under her arm.

She looks almost surprised when she stands back up and finds him still standing there. Like she expected him to leave. Like he has any reason to leave.

"So, how did you guys actually catch the guy?" he asks.

"I thought you thought the killer was a ghost?" she counters, walking past him, towards the still open double doors.

He watches her for half a second before running to catch up, finding the space next to her that suddenly feels like _his_.

It's weird.

It shouldn't really be all that weird.

They're _friends._ They can walk and talk.

"Yeah, well, you say he was human so I guess I can believe you," he says. "So, how did you catch him?"

"The details of an investigation are not open to the public, Castle," she answers.

He shrugs. "I'm not the public. I'm me."

She rolls her eyes when they get to the elevator, turning to him as she stabs the button with her finger. "You're technically part of the public, Castle," she says. "Which means you don't get to know. You'll have to read about it like everyone else"

He shrugs, and falls silent, and waits for the elevator to arrive. It does, a soft ding echoing through the halls as the metallic doors slide open. He's in sync with her this time, stepping onto the elevator just as she does, hitting the button for the ground floor before she can do it.

It brings a small smile to her lips.

"Come on," he says. "Just tell me one tiny detail. The most interesting one."

That has her rolling her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest as her gaze slides to him. "Just one?"

He nods, a smile stretching across his face as his head bobs up and down. She rolls her eyes again, shaking her head this time as her arms fall to hang at her sides.

" _Fine_ ," she relents. "The killer used a hidden room in the house to hide out and commit the crime without being seen, as well as to create some of the paranormal occurrences within the house."

His mouth falls open at that.

A hidden room. Probably above some other room. And the house was definitely old. And now he's picturing her standing in the middle of a large room with Victorian-style decorations, wearing a fitted suit and pointing her flashlight at the ceiling, staring at the opening above her head.

"How did you find it?" he asks.

She turns to him, glaring. "I thought you said _one_ detail?"

"Yeah, well, now I'm asking for a follow up detail," he says with a shrug. "So, how did you find the secret room?"

She sighs in defeat and turns back to look at the metal doors. "My teammate and I were in the house, at a dead end, looking for more clues when there was a strange draft. It eventually led us to a hole in the ceiling," she explains, the smallest of smiles playing at her lips. "I had Espo, my teammate, boost me up and we found the secret room, along with a skeleton."

He gasps. Actually gasps. "A _skeleton_?"

"Yup."

"Who was it?"

She turns to him, eyes shining. "Not a detail I'm willing to share, Castle," she says.

He nods. "Fine."

Because he can already picture this, too. Kate, heaving herself up into a mysterious, dark room, flashlight in one hand. She would be careful, scan the room with her flashlight once, twice, three times before stepping forward. Her steps would be careful, because she's _always_ on edge. And then she would step towards the door in the room, reach out to pull it open, to find a closet.

And then the skeleton would stumble out of it.

"What are you thinking?" she asks suddenly.

He turns to her. "Huh?"

"What are you thinking about? Skeletons?" she repeats. "Or secret rooms? Trying to figure out how to build on in your apartment?"

He smiles. "As good as an idea as _that_ is," he says, "it's not what I was thinking about."

"Then what were you thinking about?"

He shrugs. "You. What you just told me," he breathes. "I could write a book about you, you know."

Her face falls, the teasing glint in her eyes going out, the corner of her mouth falling, her shoulders going tense. She turns away from him, back towards the metal doors of the elevator, and starts fidgeting like she can't wait to get off. To leave.

It's almost funny that last week, staring at their reflection, he thought it looked right. Now, it looks all wrong.

He really needs to learn to think before he speaks.

So he thinks.

And then he opens his mouth to speak, but the elevator cuts him off with yet another _ding_ , louder this time. At least, it sounds louder to his ears.

Then the doors slide open, too quickly, and before he can blink, or come up with something to say, or reach for her hand and hold her back so he can apologize, she's leaving.

She all but runs out of the building, and it's only once the elevator doors start to close in front of him that he realizes he needs to leave, too.

* * *

 **As always, a huge thank you goes to Lindsey for all her help.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Prana**

* * *

The building rattles. The ground rattles. The floor shakes beneath him and his hands, caught in zip ties, press together. He squeezes his eyes shut, curling in on himself the best he can, fighting the shaking of the world. His mother is pressed against his side, whimpering quietly in fear, and if he could, he would wrap his arms around her, try to comfort her in what seems to be their last moments.

This is _not_ how he imagined today would go. At all. Not when he woke up this morning and fought the urge to write because of Kate and how upset she looked when he suggested he write a book based on her. Not when he realized he would get to see her again tonight. Not even when the bank doors slammed shut and Trapper John threatened them all.

But now…death is seemingly the only possibility.

And then the shaking stops.

Everything just…stops.

The shaking. The noise. Any semblance of movement.

Smoke floods the hallway next to him, and despite the walls blocking his view, he can tell the bank is in shambles. Debris covers the ground and dust floats through the air.

The tiny room is still. Everyone, including him, holds their breath, waiting for the realization that they're all dead. Or alive. Or something else. Just…waiting.

Suspended in time for a second before chaos breaks out.

There's pounding footsteps and yelling he can't understand, the flashes of lights across the opening in the hallway that just barely make it into their cell and he yells back to them, to the cop coming to save them, to—

"Kate?"

She turns to him, and her cheeks go beet red in half a second, but she drops onto her knees in front of him. Her bullet proof vest is stretched across her chest, the word _police_ printed on it in big, white block letters. Her hairs is pinned back and her eyes are wild, manic.

And she's wearing heels so high he's not even sure how she can _walk_ in them, never mind everything else that he's sure her job entails.

"Are you okay?" she asks, the words cold as stone.

He nods. "Shocked, but fine," he answers softly.

She nods back at him, as though she's taking in the information, and reaches for his wrists. Her slim fingers circle his arm as she cuts the zip tie between them, and then around each of them until he's free.

"What were you doing here?" she asks. The words are quiet this time. Less angry.

He shrugs. "Helping Mother get a loan," he answers. "I didn't know this would happen, if that makes you feel any better."

She looks up at him at that, her eyes going wide, the tie cutters still caught in her hand, her flashlight and gun sitting on the ground between them.

"You could have died today, you know," she breathes.

"I know," he says. "But now you're here, so I'm safe."

She frowns at that. "Castle, this is _serious._ I'm serious. You're my friend. I don't want you to… _die_."

Oh. _Oh._

He blinks, and focuses on her a little more. She looks _worried._ Really worried. Like she knew he was here the whole time and _oh,_ maybe she did. Maybe she was standing out there, worried for him, her _friend_ and now he's okay. And she's serious because she was worried.

That must be it.

He fights the urge to reach for her, the realization making his heart swell in his chest and something warm in his stomach.

She was worried about him. Despite their little fight last week, she was worried about him.

"I'm okay, Beckett," he whispers. "I probably inhaled a little smoke and dust, and my ears kind of hurt because of the sound of the blast, and my heart's still racing from everything that's happened today, but I'm okay. Better than okay. I'm alive, and that's what matters."

She nods, slowly. "Okay," she breathes. "I just didn't expect to see you until tonight, and now–"

"Oh!"

He turns, his head hitting the brick wall behind him, as his gaze slides to land on his mother.

Despite everything that's happened today, she's smiling, her blue eyes locked not on him, but on Kate. "So this is your cop friend from yoga?" says his mother.

 _Shit._

His head hits the wall again, because his mother was absolutely _not_ supposed to tell Kate that he talks about her. Talks about her enough for his mother to realize who she is.

But Kate doesn't look angry. She looks amused.

She swallows back a laugh, sneaking a glance at him before turning back to his mother. "That would be me," she says. "Detective Kate Beckett. I apologize for not helping you sooner, Ma'am. How about we get those zip ties off your wrists?"

His mother nods, her smile stretching wide, and while Kate cuts the ties around her wrists, his mother's gaze meets his.

She offers only a slight nod, but it feels strangely like he's getting her approval.

About Kate.

* * *

Getting Alexis to let him disappear for even half a second is difficult, but after many hugs and much assuring that he'll be perfectly fine, that he's going to talk to the cops, he manages to escape.

To Kate, who's still standing outside the bank, staring at the building. Well, at what remains of it. The vest is gone now, and she's wearing a button down and a blazer, a hint of nostalgia in her gaze.

He almost doesn't want to bother her.

But he does.

He finds a spot at her side, leaving enough space between the two of them. She doesn't turn to him, just keeps staring at where the police barricades surround the back, at where rubble remains on the street.

It's amazing that he was in there when the bomb went off. It's amazing that he's alive.

"Everything okay?"

He blinks, and turns to find her looking back at him now. Her eyes are wide, her smile slight, and at his confused look, she glances over his shoulder, at where his mother and daughter are still hugging.

"Oh," he breathes. "Yeah. Alexis was just…really worried. Mother and I, we're all she's got, and they're all I've got, so we're very protective of each other."

She nods. "That must be nice," she whispers.

He smiles. "It is."

She nods again, but this time it's like she's trying to fill time. Like she doesn't know what to say.

Neither does he.

And then she turns on her heel, and starts walking away, and his heart sinks until she's turning around, her gaze meeting his. She doesn't say a word, and yet her eyes beckon him to follow, so he does, running after her until he's at her side once again, falling into step with her effortlessly.

They don't walk far. The street is still closed, so they walk to the barricades and turn around, silent the entire time. She's staring at her feet, and even over the hustle and bustle, the chaos, he can hear the quiet clicks of her heels as they walk down the street.

"Beckett?"

She looks up, turning to face him, her steps faltering for half a second. "Yeah?" she breathes.

"Can I ask you something?"

She smiles, mischief flashing in her eyes. "You just did." she teases, leaning towards him to bump his shoulder with hers.

He rolls his eyes, even as a smile spreads across his face and laughter wells in his chest. "Ha, ha," he breathes. "You're very funny."

"I like to think so," she responds. "But, uh, yeah, you can ask me a question."

He nods. "Okay," he whispers. And his lips part around the words, around his question, but it stays caught in the back of his throat as his gazes falls to his feet.

His shoes are covered with white dust.

"Castle?" she says softly.

He looks back up at her, forces a smile. "You work in homicide, right?" he asks.

She nods. "I have for years. Why?"

"Nobody died in the bank today," he says. "So why were you there? Why were you the first person to make it through the door?"

"Oh."

It's not an answer. It's far, so very far from an answer. But the fact that she turns away from him to look at the ground, again, and her cheeks turn pink as her eyes squeeze shut for half a second…that might be an answer. Or at least a semblance of one.

She couldn't have been here for him, right?

No. She couldn't have.

They're friends. Yoga friends who talk once a week and that's it. Nothing worthy of her worry, of her being here, at a crime scene, when it's not her job, for _him._

That's absurd.

But she still doesn't answer. Instead, she says something else entirely.

"I'm not telling you about my cases anymore."

He frowns. That's random, but she sounds so very serious, almost upset and he doesn't know why. Her eyes lock on his, her lips pressed into a thin line as she crosses her arms over her chest.

She's leaving no room for arguing, but he's not even sure he would take the chance.

"You said you could write a book about me," she says. "And that's because I'm a cop. Because I solve murders, and murders are what you write about. My stories about crawl spaces and cryogenic freezing inspire you, for whatever reason, and you're not to be blamed for that."

He nods. "Okay."

"But I don't want a book written about me. At all. Castle, it's just not something I'm okay with," she continues. "So my stories about my cases, the stories that inspire you, I'm not going to tell them to you anymore. You won't write a book about me. Okay?"

There's still no room for arguing. No room to budge, but one thing sticks in his mind.

She keeps saying that the _stories_ inspire him. As though she has no idea that it's not just the stories. That he finds the stories cool, but she amazes him. She inspires him, now more than ever.

And he almost tells her. But she wouldn't want to hear it.

And she's leaving no room to argue, so he says the only thing he can.

"Okay."

Her eyes widen, like she expected him to argue, and he didn't. But then she shrugs one shoulder, and turns back towards the stretch of road in front of them.

They've already passed the hostage negotiation van and most of the chaos. Cops are taking statements and the fire department is cleaning up the mess. Alexis and his mother are standing side by side, staring at the building, at the rubble, their bright orange hair differentiating them from the crowd. He wonders if they're as amazed by what happened today as he is.

He shrugs and turns back towards the street in front of him. He has a little time, and Kate isn't trying to escape, despite everything that happened, so he enjoys the silence. Enjoys the peace.

It's odd how some days things are peaceful, and others she has his heart racing in his chest.

And how it's entirely in her hands.

She stops suddenly, where the barricades on this side of the bank stand, keeping traffic out and apparently people in. Her gaze slides from the ground to him, her green eyes landing on his, the slightest of smiles playing at her lips.

"You should probably get back to your family," she says softly.

He nods. "Probably."

She smiles, and it's sweet, almost adorable. "And I figure you're not going to be there tonight?"

"Uh, yeah, I think I'll pass," he confirms. "Think Miss Nichols will forgive me?"

She chuckles. "If she asks, I'll tell her the truth. I'm sure she'll understand." she promises. "You just go and enjoy the evening with your family. They seem like really great people. And I'll…uh, see you next week."

 _Until next week._

"Okay," he says. "I'll see you next week, Kate."

She smiles at him, and stays by the barricades while he forces himself to turn and walk away. He keeps walking until he's locked in Alexis' arms again, and tries not to look back.

He succeeds until they're leaving the street entirely, leaving to walk home, and Kate is still at the scene, standing by the hostage negotiation van with a few other cops.

It isn't until he's in bed, propped up on pillows and reading a book, that he realizes that she said both his mother _and_ Alexis seemed like great people.

But he doesn't remember her meeting Alexis.

* * *

 **As always, a huge thank you goes out to Lindsey for all her help.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Prana**

* * *

She's waiting for him when he gets to class. Actually waiting.

Her mat is rolled out beneath her feet, her arms crossed over her chest, her brows pinched in worry, when he walks into the room. And her eyes, which had been locked on the doors, dart away the minute he spots her, her gaze falling to the floor.

He tries not to let it excite him. Tries not to let himself believe it means anything.

And he fails.

Because she's _waiting_ for him. That has to mean something, right?

Of course it doesn't.

That doesn't keep him from walking up to her, and finding the spot where he usually rolls out his yoga mat, the spot right next to her.

"Good evening," he greets, toeing off his shoes. He sets his mat down on the ground and forces it to unroll with a gentle tap of his toe before turning to look at her again, to find her looking back at him. "How was your day?"

That makes her cock a hip, crossing her arms over her chest. "I'm not telling you about my case, Castle," she reminds him.

"I know," he defends. "I didn't ask about your case. I asked about your _day_."

"Which was largely taken up by my case," she counters. "I got up, went to work, went home, came here. That's my day so far."

He's not sure if he wants to smile at her or frown. Because she's telling him about herself, about what she does, how she lives.

But she's also revealing a lonely life, a simple life, a life he can't imagine living.

She seems to like it, though. Or, well, not hate it, at least.

"Well," he breathes, "you could have woken up well rested, or on the wrong side of the bed. Work could have gone well or horribly. You could have been exhilarated or exhausted when you got home, and being here could be either a good thing or a bad thing."

Her soft laugh is completely unexpected.

"What?"

She shrugs. "Nothing," she answers, the words soft, still laced with amusement. "I just…you really _are_ a writer."

Oh.

He really isn't. Not lately. Not now.

But she doesn't need to know that.

"Whatever," he says, waving her off. "It's not something to laugh at."

She goes serious at that, the laughter dying immediately and he kind of regrets it. He definitely regrets it. Because she has a beautiful laugh.

But she's staring at him, serious, and her cheeks turn a light shade of pink.

"No, it isn't," she agrees. "I wasn't laughing at…that. Just that, most people would put it more simply. You word things differently, because you're a writer. That's all."

"I know," he says, his hand curling into a fist at his side to resist the urge to reach out and touch her. To reach out and comfort her. "I wasn't insulted, Kate."

Her eyes meet his again, wide this time, still apologetic. "Oh."

He smiles. "So, how was your day?"

It makes her laugh again, just a quiet puff of air. "It was good, Castle," she breathes. "Long, but good."

He nods. "Okay. I'm glad," he says.

They're silent for a moment. He's hyper aware of the fact that she's staring at him, her eyes wide, her bottom lip caught between her teeth.

"How are you doing?" she asks eventually, softly. "Since the bank, I mean. Are you okay?"

Oh.

She's worried about him. Actually _worried_ , based on the way her eyes flicker to his wrists, as though she's picturing the way they were strapped together.

He remembers the sensation of her hand on his, her fingers drifting over his skin so very gently as she cut the ties.

But he shouldn't be thinking about that.

"I'm fine," he answers.

That has her tilting her head, her brows raising in doubt.

He smiles. "Really, Kate. I'm fine," he repeats. "I'm…glad to be alive. I think Alexis is actually handling it worse than I am."

"Yeah, I can imagine," she whispers. "She seemed really–"

"Good evening, class."

She swallows the rest of her sentence as she turns away from him. He does the same, his gaze landing on Miss Nichols, who's standing at the front of the room, a smile spread across her face, her hair pulled back in a high ponytail.

"How are you guys doing today?" she asks, as though she expects more than an unintelligible grumble in response.

He sneaks once last glance at Kate, finds her smiling back at him, almost apologetically, before class begins.

* * *

"I don't know what to say," he admits.

She turns to look at him, tearing her gaze away from the closed elevator doors. "What do you mean?" she asks, the words soft, curious, her brows furrowing with them.

"Well, now is the time when I would usually ask you about your case and try to build a conversation about that–"

"I'm not telling you about my case, Castle," she reminds him. Again. As though she thinks he hasn't understood by now.

He has. He most certainly has.

"I know," he breathes. "I just…I don't know what else to talk about. We've already established that you don't care to share what you do with the rest of your day."

She shrugs. "There's nothing worth sharing."

He nods, just as the elevator doors slide open, drawing his attention to them. He steps onto the lift, and lets her hit the button for the ground floor. She lingers in her usual spot for a moment before turning to him, taking a step back until she's leaning against the wall, her hands wrapped around the railing that traces the small space.

The slightest of smiles curls at the corner of her mouth.

"Why don't we talk about you?"

"Me?"

Him?

Nobody wants to talk about him. There's nothing worth talking about.

"Yeah, you," she answers. "There's no reason for us to always talk about me. Tell me about your writing or something."

Right. The non-existent writing. And if he _does_ manage to get something down, no matter whether it's in his notebook or computer it's horrible. Not exactly a great way to impress someone.

Not that he's trying to impress her.

"There's nothing worth sharing," he parrots back at her, shrugging one shoulder.

There isn't. There's writer's block and blank documents. And that horrible flop that cannot be called a novel, that has his name printed on the spine, that only makes everything worse.

"You're a New York Times bestselling author," she reminds him. "There has to be _something._ "

He looks up, his gaze meeting hers. She looks genuinely curious, like she has no idea he hasn't written anything of substance in _years,_ like she has no idea that she's the first thing he's found inspiring since he killed off Derrick Storm.

And then there's that _Magnum Opus_ that he hopes she has never even heard of.

Then again, she couldn't have heard of it, much less read it. She wouldn't be talking about him like he's a great writer if she had.

She would be rolling her eyes and scoffing at his title.

"There's really nothing," he says. "I haven't written in a while. I blame lack of inspiration."

"Oh."

He cannot be imagining the flicker of recognition in her eyes. The fact that she _knows_ she inspires him.

The brief flash of guilt that comes and goes between the quiet murmur and the press of her hand against her side, like she's trying to remind herself why he can't write about her.

Not that she needs a reason.

He probably couldn't do her justice, anyway.

"Tell me about your family, then," she says.

He blinks. "Huh?"

"Your family," she repeats, amusement seeping into her tone. "You know, your daughter, your mother? Tell me about them."

"You really want to know?"

She can't possibly. Nobody ever wants to know.

And yet she nods. Even though the elevator ride couldn't possibly go on for all that much longer. Even though she could easily find an out.

She wants to know. She _actually_ wants to know.

It's weird. And oddly thrilling.

He smiles. "Well, Alexis, even though she might not have seemed as much when you met her, is level-headed and logical and I to this day have no idea where she gets it from, because her mother and I are…way less mature than she is, or than she was when she was six," he tells her.

She laughs. "Oh, you don't seem that immature," she says.

"You've never seen me play laser tag."

Her lips part, and then fall closed again and a blush rises to her cheeks.

She blushes a lot, which is something he never really expected.

"Yeah, well, I don't plan to," she mumbles. "So, based on what I do know, you don't seem that immature."

He smiles. "Alexis is still way better."

"Okay," she agrees, with a quick nod of her head. "What about your mother?"

He chuckles. "Well, everything I said about Alexis?"

She nods.

"Mother is not that," he continues, and a laugh bubbles up from her throat. "She's over-dramatic, comes with being an actress, I suppose, and a total flirt and absolutely shameless. I can't even tell you how much she scarred me when I was younger…and just last week."

She laughs again, louder this time, but when her eyes open back into his, she looks sad. Hurt. And he can't help but notice the way her hand skims her side, grief flickering in her eyes.

 _Oh._ She lost her mother.

"Sorry," he breathes.

Her eyes widen. "Why?"

He swallows, his eyes falling to land on the ground, on the tiled floor, before sliding back up to meet hers. "I, uh, I know you lost your mother," he says. "I didn't mean to…"

"Hey, don't worry about it," she says, the words weak, breathy. Shaky and sad. "I asked, remember? If I couldn't handle hearing you talk about it, I wouldn't have asked."

And despite the pain lingering in her green eyes, sincerity shines bright in them and laces every word, sealing the promise between them.

If she asks, he can talk about it.

"Okay," he agrees. "We can still…talk about something else, though, if you want to."

She nods, but her response is cut short by the elevator coming to a stop, sliding down then up again before the doors open to the ground floor. She turns to him, offers him a smile.

"Looks like there's no need," she says softly.

He wishes there was.

But he forces a smile anyway, and follows her off the elevator as people waiting on the ground floor pile in. Her steps slow before they reach the doors to leave the building, and she turns to look at him.

"You seem to have a great family, you know?" she says softly. "A lot of people wish for a family like yours."

He swallows thickly, his mind flashing with something he knows.

She's one of them. One of the people who wishes for a family like his. For her mother, probably. Definitely, based on the way she looks away again, just as the flicker of regret returns to her gaze.

"I know," he answers. "I take them for granted too much."

"Yeah," she agrees, and yet he doesn't feel like it's directed at him. He doesn't feel like she's thinking of his family anymore at all.

His hand clenches into a fist, the urge to reach out for her returning. "You okay?" he says softly.

She looks at him again, nods her head a little too quickly. "I'm fine," she says, just as they reach the door. She reaches up to push it open, turns back to look at him one last time. "I, uh, I hope Alexis recovers from what happened at the bank sooner rather than later."

He nods, smiling. "I'm sure she'll be fine," he says. "But I'll let you know how she's doing next week?"

She smiles back at him, her nod almost imperceptible. "Yeah," she breathes. "Next week." And then she disappears into pedestrian traffic.

He follows close behind, still smiling.

Because she wanted to know about _him._

* * *

 **As always, a huge thanks goes to Lindsey for all her help.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Prana**

* * *

She's not here when he shows up, the spot where she usually situates herself bare.

He shrugs, smiles against the well of disappointment in his stomach when he goes to find his own spot. His mat hits the ground and he nudges it with his toe so it unrolls before he kicks off his shoes and steps onto it.

And she's still not here.

So there's no one to talk to, nothing to do. While he waits for her. While he waits for class.

It's stupid, how much he's grown to depend on her presence, on her smile, her words, how much he looks forward to this class, filled with uncomfortable stretching and forced breaths, just for the chance to see her.

It's _really_ stupid.

But he can't bring himself to stop glancing at the door, to keep his heart from swelling at the thought of her laugh, or at the way her cheeks turn pink when she gets embarrassed. He can't bring himself to stop–

 _No._

He has to stop.

She would probably appreciate him stopping.

Even though she wanted to talk about _him_ last week, and it made him giddy like a teenager. It made him forget, for just a split second, that he's failed at what he loves, that his daughter thinks he's so down on himself he needs to do _yoga._

That Kate's the first thing that's made him want to write in over three years.

Yeah, she definitely wants him to stop thinking like that.

Swallowing back a sigh, he sneaks one last glance at the door, only to ensure that nobody is standing on the other side, that she's still not here.

She isn't.

So he forces himself to look away, swallowing back yet another sigh, and leans to the side, falling into a series of stretches he hasn't done in weeks.

The ones he first did when he was imitating her.

He shakes that thought away.

He really needs to stop letting her work her way into his every thought.

There's only a few minutes until class, and he spends them stretching, his eyes locked on the business logo on the front wall of the room, the outline of a lotus flower surrounding it.

Because he _can't_ look at the door again.

Besides, Miss Nichols is taking her place at the front of the room, situating herself on her mat, swirling her arms through the air before bringing her palms down to rest on her stomach.

"Good evening, class," she greets. "Are you all ready?"

He sneaks one more glance at the door now. Because class is starting and Kate's still not here.

But she's been late before, work dragging on, keeping her busy.

It's nothing to worry about. Nothing to get distracted with.

He turns back toward the front of the room, his gaze landing on Miss Nichols, and nods his head even though she's not looking in his direction.

* * *

She didn't show up.

 _She didn't show up._

And his mind is telling him that it's okay, that it's no big deal. She probably got stuck at work. Maybe a case is running long, or an interrogation. Or maybe she has to finish up some paperwork and that was more important than attending every single one of her yoga classes.

That's what his mind is telling him.

But his heart is racing, beating itself against his ribs, as the class comes to a close and Miss Nichols tells them that she'll see them all next week.

He scrambles to his feet, rolls up his yoga mat as quickly as he can, fumbling with the edges of it, ignoring the imperfections when he tucks it under his arm and jams his feets into his shoes.

Not that rushing will do him any good.

He doesn't know her address. Or her phone number.

All he has is her name and the memory of her smile and the sinking feeling in his gut telling him she's not okay, telling him something is definitely wrong.

She could have gotten hurt during a takedown, or aggravated something from her shooting. God forbid something is wrong with her heart.

He usually lingers after class, taking slow steps so he can talk to her as long as possible. They're usually the last ones out the door, the last ones to catch the elevator.

But today he's one of the first to leave, and the elevator is already filled with other students from the class when he steps on, almost out of breath.

The ride he usually wishes was longer can't be short enough today. He spends it staring at the red block numbers above the doors, waiting for the lift to reach the ground floor.

He should have just taken the damn stairs.

So he can leave and do nothing because even if she is hurt, even if she's dying, he's just her acquaintance from yoga class and, in the grand scheme of things, that means nothing.

There's nothing he can do to help her.

And yet when the elevator slows to a stop, he practically runs off, ignoring the odd looks he gets as he steps into the building's lobby and starts for the double doors leading to the sidewalk.

All he needs is a cab and he can…keep doing nothing to help her.

His shoulders sag, disappointment welling in his chest, as real as the worry that still has his heart racing. He steps back from the edge of the sidewalk and turns around.

He should go for a walk. Let himself calm down.

Remind himself that caring too much usually ends with his heart being broken.

With a quiet sigh, he forces himself to take another step, and another, until the people around him, the cars racing down the street and the windows to his right fade to nothing, to blurs he doesn't care about.

He just needs to get home.

* * *

His mother is home when he walks through the door, and the way he slams the door behind him has her looking up from her script to look at him instead.

"Richard?"

He doesn't answer, ignoring her completely as he walks through the living room. His steps are quick and heavy as he reaches the entry to his office, as he crosses the threshold and heads straight for his computer.

The office chair swirls beneath him when he drops into it, and he catches the desk to stop the spinning. And then he's reaching for his computer, drawing the lid open and pulling up the web browser.

The click of his mother's heels echo through the apartment, quick sounds as she rushes to join him, until she standing behind him, her one hand planted on the back of his chair, her fingertips just barely brushing the back of his head.

"Richard?" she repeats, "what's wrong?"

He takes a deep breath, even as his fingers splay across the keyboard, typing out the search he needs like he's on running on autopilot.

 _NYPD_

He probably is running on autopilot, actually.

" _Richard_ ," says his mother one more time.

He sucks in another breath, hitting the enter key before turning around, the seat spinning with him as he faces his mother.

She's worried. That's plain to see. Her eyebrows are knit together and yet her eyes are a little wider than they usually are. Her grip on the back of his chair is tight.

"She wasn't in class today," he tells her, the words rushed, almost desperate.

So much for talking himself down on the walk home.

"Who?" she asks. "Detective Beckett? The woman who was at the bank?"

He nods, almost frantic as his hands curl around the armrests of his chair, his grip so tight his knuckles start to turn white.

"Yes," he breathes. "Her, _Kate,_ she didn't show up today."

His mother's brows only furrow even more. "But Richard, she's a detective. She probably has unpredictable work hours," she says, rationalizing the same way he tried, and failed to. "Or maybe she was simply feeling under the weather and decided to skip yoga for the day."

He nods, even though his mind is racing all over again. "But she's a _cop,_ Mother, and she could be hurt. She got shot just a few months ago, in the chest, something could have happened." He pauses to suck in a loud breath. "I just need to check. I just—"

"Then check, Richard," says his mother, reaching over to rest her hand on his shoulder.

He spins once again, this time so he's facing the computer and the search results that have come up, his eyes instantly landing on the first headline.

 _Sniper Running Rampant on New York City_

"Although you do have to wonder, if she's just a friend you see once a week, why you're so worried," says his mother. Her voice barely a whisper as she squeezes his shoulder gently.

He ignores her.

Kate's a friend. It's perfectly acceptable to be worried about friends.

And he clicks the link.

He skims the article the first time, so quickly he doesn't catch a single word. His hand is shaking where it hovers over the touchpad, his heart racing in his chest, pounding against his ribs.

It takes him too long to scroll back up the page, his quivering fingers struggling with the touchpad and buttons until the image at the top of the webpage, one of the city skyline, comes back into view.

And he takes a deep breath before he starts reading again, forcing himself to go more slowly this time.

It starts off with describing the crimes in broad strokes, simple and detailess and he scrolls past the first chapter before he's even finished reading it.

The next paragraph describes the first victim, and as worried as he is, he takes a deep breath and slows down to read it. The mystery writer in him, the mystery lover in him makes him read it.

The next couple paragraphs are the same, describing the next victim and a woman who was shot but survived, but was alive to give her statement at the scene before being rushed off to the hospital in an ambulance.

He flashes back to the images that littered the papers. Of a cemetery with a podium and a large span of well groomed lawn. Of the detective in her dress blues, lying on the ground, her hands hovering over her body, her eyes wide open, visibly so even though the picture was taken from pretty far away.

 _Kate._

 _NYPD Detective Shot at Captain's Funeral_

He scrolls past that paragraph, banishing it to beyond the edge of his screen, along with the image, which he forces to the back of his mind. And then he starts reading the next part.

It's only two lines long. And it's everything he needed to know.

 _The NYPD's 12th Precinct is currently investigating the murders. They assure the public that they are doing everything they can to identify and apprehend the shooter._

His breath escapes him, stuttering and weak.

Kate works at the 12th.

She's investigating the sniper case.

She was shot by a sniper just a few months ago.

His mother squeezes his shoulder once more. "What, Richard? What did you find?" she asks. "Did Detective Beckett get shot?"

He shakes his head, and then nods, but can't clarify.

He still can't breathe.

Because he might only speak to her once a week, he might only be her yoga friend. But he's still her friend.

And there's a weight in his gut, a sinking feeling in his chest telling him that she might not be hurt or dead or lying in a hospital bed somewhere, but she's certainly not okay.

* * *

 **As always, a huge thank you goes to Lindsey for all her help.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Prana**

* * *

He practically pounces on her when she shows up, and she looks up at him, eyes wide.

"Castle?"

Confusion laces every word, her brows furrowing as she eyes him up and down. She adjusts the mat under her arm, her nails digging into the giving layers of plastic beneath them. And she shifts from one foot to the other, her gaze meeting his again.

"You okay?" she asks.

He blinks, and his vision refocuses, two Kates sliding back into one. His gaze drifts down the length of her body. She's wearing long sleeves today, the neckline of her shirt still high. Her fingers curl around the fabric at her wrist and she tugs.

She looks almost as nervous as he feels.

"Castle?" she repeats, and this time she sounds worried. Her voice is breathy, her eyes are still wide as she tries to meet his gaze once again. "Is everything okay?"

He lets out of breath.

He hasn't been okay. Not for the entire week. He's spent it worrying about her, reading every article and blog post about the sniper case he could find.

They caught the guy on Friday. He was shot and killed, apparently by one cop, right before he would have shot another.

He spent the days after that imagining her with a gun pointed at her chest. Or at her head. He dreamed of her shaking, begging for her life. Or of her standing her ground, fighting.

And he dreamed of her dying, and of never seeing her again, of never learning the story of the homicide detective with the scars and the beautiful smile, who blushes at his jokes and wants to know about him.

Of her never getting the life she deserves.

" _Castle._ "

It's almost a shout this time, loud enough to draw the gazes of other students. Her head dips towards the ground, her cheeks turning pink like she didn't realize what she was doing.

How worried she sounded when he's the one who spent the past week panicking.

"What's wrong?" she mumbles, and the others turn away. "Is it Alexis? Is she not coping after what happened at the bank? Or your mother?"

His heart swells as she shakes his head.

She cares about his family, enough to ask, even with people looking at them, even three weeks after what happened at the bank.

"Alexis is fine," he breathes. "She had a rough first week, but she's gotten better since. I think she realizes that it was a freak event, and my mother and I are okay, and that the chances of it happening again are pretty slim."

Kate nods. "Okay then," she says, "it this isn't about Alexis or your mom, what's it about?"

And she looks so beautiful as she says it, the smallest of smiles spreading across her face, curiosity glinting in her eyes. And _alive._

He wants to wrap his arms around her and tell her everything: about how worried he was, how glad he is that she's okay.

But it's probably the last thing she wants to hear. It would probably send her running as quickly as his idea about writing a book about her did, and that's the last thing he wants.

That's the last thing he'll ever want.

 _Ever._

He pushes that thought back, forbids it as he forces a smile. "I was just, uh, wondering if you would like to get a cup of coffee after class," he says instead.

And though her brows furrow in confusion and her teeth catch her bottom lip, she ends up offering him a sweet smile and a nod of her head.

"Okay."

* * *

It's odd that it feels like a normal Thursday when class ends and she turns to look at him, brows raised in expectation.

He nods his head, and they stand in near unison. She rolls up her mat while he slips on his shoes. and then he rolls up his own mat while she does up her laces.

Her shoulder bumps against his as they step onto the elevator, and she looks away as she reaches over to hit the button for the ground floor.

There's two other people in the elevator this time, and it's odd, the silence that fills the elevator where conversation is usually easy and happy between him and Kate.

She lets everyone off the lift before stepping off herself, her hand pressing against the door until it falls away, and the metal slides closed behind them.

"So, do you know any coffee shops in the area?" she asks, turning to look at him as she reaches for that metal handle on the glass door that leads onto the sidewalk. "Or are we just going to walk around aimlessly until we find one?" She smiles.

He smiles back at her. "I actually do know of one nearby," he says. "I've never been there, but it seemed pretty busy when I walked by, and it wasn't one of those big franchises."

"Do you usually walk home after class?"

She pushes her way through the door, holding it open until he follows.

He doesn't. He never really has. Even last week he only made it about halfway before giving up and hailing a cab.

But she doesn't need to know that.

So he shrugs. "Sometimes," he answers.

She nods her acceptance, and doesn't ask anything else and he leads her to the coffee shop he walked by last week, one of the few building fronts his otherwise occupied brain picked up on. He holds the door open for her when they reach the shop, and she walks in before him.

She orders first, refusing to let him cover the bill even though it's just a few dollars, and he makes a mental note of her order just as she turns to find them a table.

A grande skim latte with two pumps of sugar free vanilla.

He orders himself a cappuccino and turns to find her sitting at one of tables for two, pressed against one of the side walls of the coffee shop, a picture of a busy New York city street hanging over the table. He walks over, dropping onto the chair across from her.

She takes a sip of her coffee, sinking back against her chair.

"So," she says, "earlier, you obviously weren't going to ask me out for coffee, so, uh, what's up?" she asks.

The words are strong, her voice stable, but her gaze darts to the table, the the smears from the washcloth that was used to wipe away the evidence of the last customers. She sets the mug back down, and cross her arms over her chest, her gaze sliding back up to meet his.

"Castle?"

He looks away, his eyes landing on the swirl of white in the tan of his coffee. His hands curl tightly around the mug and he draws it closer to his chest, but doesn't take a sip.

"I, uh, missed you in class last week," he admits, the words coming out quiet and shaky.

"Oh," she breathes. "I was working."

He nods. "I figured," he says. And finally, he brings the mug of coffee to his lips and takes a tiny sip, only to set the cup back down with a thud. "So, uh, I read about the sniper. Were you on that case?"

He tries to make it sound casual, conversational, and fails miserably, his voice cracking with worry as her gaze falls from his and she tugs her sleeves over her hands.

"Yeah," she whispers. "I was."

His heart thuds, pounding against his ribs. "Are you…okay?"

She swallows thickly, and her hands fall to hide under the table. Her gaze locks on the metal square at the center of the table, and she blinks once, twice, three times, too quickly, like she's trying to hold back tears.

"I'm fine," she mumbles. "Why wouldn't I be? It was just another case."

"Was it?"

She looks up at him again, her eyes wide now, panicked. She tugs at her sleeves once again, and shifts in her seat, pressing herself into the corner between her chair and the wall, drawing her legs closer to her. She bites at her lip, and sucks in a deep breath through her nose before looking back at him.

As though that wasn't answer enough.

"It was," she whispers.

His brows raise, and his heart breaks for her. "Really, Kate?" he asks. "You can tell me the truth, you know. It won't make me see you any differently."

Her gaze steels to a glare. "Why do you think I'm lying?" she asks, her voice strong and even, her gaze locked on his. "Why would this case be any different from every other one?"

He swallows thickly, leaning forward in his seat. He wraps his hands around his mug once again, uses the warmth seeping through it and the weight of the ceramic to still his shaking hands. She eyes him curiously from across the table, watching his every move, still burrowed in her corner.

He sucks in a breath, slow and steadying, just like she does, just like they usually do during yoga.

"You were shot by a sniper just a few months ago, Kate," he says.

She jerks back, her arms coming up to cross over her chest, and her eyes go wide once again, like she didn't expect him to actually say it.

Like she didn't expect him to care as much as he does.

"You can't tell me that a sniper running rampage on the city, and you being one of the cops charged with catching him, did nothing to you."

"What if it did?" she whispers.

"Did nothing?"

She nods.

"Did it?" he asks.

She sighs, and shrugs one shoulder, uncrossing her legs as she leans forward, reaching for her coffee mug.

And it's then that her sleeve rides up, free from the confines of her fingers as she reaches for the mug, unaware. But his gaze is locked on the white bandage taped to her arm, from just past her wrist to past the hem of her sleeve.

"You're hurt," he breathes, his voice shaky even to his own ears as his hands curl tightly around the edge of to the table to keep himself from reaching for her, to keep himself from examining the room.

Besides, she's already scrambling to cover her arm, as though that will change the fact that he didn't see it. She tugs the fabric back down over her hand and closes her fist around it, sinking back into her chair again.

Her gaze falls, her cheeks turning red, and yet she shrugs one shoulder.

"It's nothing," she breathes. "Just a little cut."

"A _little_ cut?" he asks. "Kate, that bandage covers like half your arm."

"Yeah, well, at work we can't really have open wounds," she whispers. "It's really no big deal."

She looks up at him for half a second, and the back down, raising her hands so their resting on the table again.

And he doesn't think it through, but he reaches forward, his hand wrapping around hers. Her fingers are still curled into a fist around the fabric of her shirt, but she lets him draw her hand closer to him, the pad of his thumb drifting over the jut of her thumb.

"You _can_ tell me the truth," he whispers. "Whatever the truth is."

She looks down at their hands, joined on the table, and he watches as her fingers release their death grip on her shirt. She pushes her hand through the end of her sleeve, curling her fingers around his, squeezing his hand gently.

In the ten weeks he's known her, it's the most physical contact they've ever had..

And despite the circumstances, he can't help the way his heart stutters at the feel of her small, soft hand in his.

"Castle, the truth is that it did do _something_. It did…a lot," she whispers, her eyes locking on his. "But it's a lot that I really don't want to talk about right now."

He nods. "Okay," he whispers. "Then we don't have to talk about it. At all." With his free hand, he reaches for his mug, takes a slow sip, her eyes still locked on his face. "We can just sit here, and drink coffee, and talk until we're ready to leave, okay?"

She nods, the slightest of smiles curling her lips. "Okay."

And then she leans back, reaching for her own coffee cup, her hand slipping from within his grasp.

He hates himself for missing it.

* * *

 **As always, a huge thank you goes to Lindsey for all her help.**


	11. Chapter 11

**Prana**

* * *

It had caught him off guard when she came up to him before class, a shy smile on her face, wringing her hands in front of her. Her mat was already rolled out on the floor, her shoes already off, the bandage on her arm gone.

She'd asked him out for coffee, her voice low as her gaze flicked between him and the ground, her fingers wrapped around her wrist.

And of course, without a second of hesitation, he'd accepted.

Because he could never turn down the chance to spend more time with her.

So he had smiled back at her and nodded his head, offering her quiet agreement just as Miss Nichols announced that class was about to begin.

Still, he'd glanced at her a fair amount of times during class, admiring the bend of her spine, the toned muscles of her legs, the smile and blush that spread across her face when he caught her staring back at him.

And then it had happened again. And again. And again, until they were sinking to the floor, meditating, listening to Miss Nichols count the breathing of the entire class, until the session ended and people left.

And now they're here, sitting in the same coffee shop as last week. Her jacket is draped across the back of her chair, her hands curled around the white ceramic of her mug, her latte half finished. She smiles at him, her gaze falling from his for a second.

She's beautiful.

He takes a sip from his own coffee, slow and slight to prolong this coffee-but-not-quite-a-date with her. With Kate.

"You okay?" he asks.

She nods, looking up to meet his gaze once again. "Yeah," she breathes. "I just, I wanted to talk to you about something, a few things actually."

"Okay."

She fidgets, her gaze falling to where her hands are resting on the table. Her wrists are pressed against the edge of it, her fingers just barely brushing against the mug sitting nearby. Her teeth catch the inside of her lip as she looks up back up at him.

"Last week…I still don't want to talk about it, really," she whispers.

He nods. "Then we don't have to talk about it, Kate," he breathes. "We can talk about something else. _Anything_ else."

Her eyes, bright with determination, gleaming with pain, lock on his now. The specks of gold in her irises are brighter today, beautiful. He wants to reach over and trace the line of her cheekbone with his thumb, see a smile crinkle the corners of her eyes.

But that's too much. They're just friends. So he holds back, smiling in gentle encouragement.

"I know we don't," she says. "I'm the one that brought it up, and I know you wouldn't…push me to talk about something when I'm uncomfortable with it."

He nods, his grip on his mug tightening.

"But I do want to…" she trails off, shaking her head slightly, her gaze falling from his for a second. "We're friends, and you're…my closest friend outside of work, and there's some things I need to say…that I can't say to them."

His lips part around words that don't come, his brows furrowing in confusion, and yet he nods his head. "Okay," he whispers again. "You can tell me anything."

She smiles, her gratitude evident in the beautiful upturn of her lips. "I know," she murmurs.

He doubts she meant for him to hear it, so he swallows back his comment, tampers the well of pride in his chest and the urge to reach for her.

She doesn't look back up at him this time. Her gaze stays locked on the swirl of milk in her coffee as she reaches for the mug, draws it closer to her chest.

"You were right, the sniper case wasn't just another case. It was so much more," she says. "And I really don't want to get into the details or dump too much on you, Castle, but I just…I need to tell someone and you're…my friend and I think you'll understand enough to not push me."

He nods again, even though she's not looking at him, biting his tongue to keep from pushing her into saying…whatever she wants to say before she's ready.

And after just a few seconds, she looks back up at him, looking more vulnerable than he's ever seen her, than he ever thought he would be lucky enough to see.

And despite the severity of the moment, despite the way her eyes brim with unshed tears, he can't help but be grateful that _he_ gets to see her like this.

That she trusts him enough to let him see this side of her.

"I have PTSD."

He blinks, and it's just long enough for her to look away again. She's swiping at her eyes, taking a deep breath as though trying to calm herself down and if they were more than friends, if they were closer, he would stand up and sweep her into a hug.

But they are just friends. And they aren't close enough for him to do that.

So he reaches over, and takes her hand, just like he did last week.

She looks up at him, eyes wide, and then her gaze darts to their joined hands. He half expects her to pull away, but she doesn't. She melts into him, accepting the support.

It's the last thing he expected, everything he could have wished for.

He squeezes her hand.

"From the shooting?" he asks.

She nods slowly. "And the sniper case…triggered it. That's how I got the cut on my arm," she says. "And I didn't want to accept it, but I have to and it helps to tell someone…and I told myself I wouldn't do this."

"Do what?"

She looks down at their hands again, and squeezes his fingers this time before pulling back, pressing her palm against the flat surface of the table.

"Dump everything on you," she says. "I just wanted to…say it…to a friend and not treat you like a therapist, because I already have one of those. I just needed to say it."

"But if you want to dump everything on me, you can," he tells her. "You can treat me like a therapist, Kate. I can be a great listener…sometimes."

She scoffs, the sounds laced with laughter that draws a smile to his face.

"Thanks for the offer, Castle, but I'm okay," she says with a nod. "I told someone and that's enough for today. Besides, there's something else, something happier."

"Happier?"

She smiles, and wipes the last tears from the corners of her eyes with the back of her hand. "Yeah, _happier,_ " she says. "Instilling a greater sense of joy."

He rolls his eyes. "I know what it means," he says. "I _am_ a writer."

"Right." She chuckles. "But yeah, I have something a little happier to ask you."

"Ask me?"

"Are we going to do this every time?"

He laughs, shaking his head slightly as she chuckles along with him. She reaches for her coffee, and takes a sip, setting the mug back down, her hand shaking ever so slightly.

"So, something happier?"

She nods, turning to look at him again. A small smile flirts with the corners of her mouth. "Yeah," she breathes. "One of my friends from work is getting married Saturday, and I know it's short notice, but I'm trying to avoid the singles' table and being the fifth wheel with my work friends, so I was wondering if you wanted to come with me?"

It comes out as a question, her voice going suddenly small and shy as his jaw falls open.

Because she just…

"As a friend," she adds.

As if he could have thought she meant anything else.

But still, she…

"Castle?"

He clamps his mouth shut, blinking as he focuses back on her. She's staring at him, her brows furrowed in something that looks oddly like worry, eyes shining with insecurity.

"If you don't want to, that's perfectly fine. I know this is kinda just a Thursday evening friendship, but I thought maybe–"

"Yes," he blurts. "I mean, yeah, I'd love to save you from the singles' table and being the fifth wheel."

She smiles, wide and bright and happy, all evidence of tears, besides the slight redness around her eyes, fading as delight floods her features.

And he stares. Because there is no way he made her _that_ happy just by agreeing to attend a wedding with her. And because he's picturing her in a nice dress, her hair and makeup done, and she's just as beautiful in his mind as she is sitting across the table from him.

She's always beautiful, in his mind and in reality.

"Okay," she breathes. "Well, thank you."

"It will be my pleasure, Kate," he says.

Because it will be. Because any time he gets to spend with her is.

And because he's wanted more than yoga night conversations for weeks now, but he couldn't ask. But she did ask.

And now they're going to a wedding together.

She takes another side of her coffee. her gaze locked on the rim of her mug, but he can't tear his eyes away. He can't stop looking at her, admiring her.

Can't stop the well of _something_ in his chest when she sets her cup back down and lets him see the pink on her cheeks, the smile still shining in her eyes.

"So, I'll pick you up at around three on Saturday?" she asks.

He nods. "Sounds perfect."

His mind is still stuck on the image of her, though, proper and pampered for the wedding, maybe wearing a shirt with a neckline lower than the ones she wears to class every week.

Maybe more open and happy than he's seen her so far, with people she knows, people she's comfortable with.

Quite possibly better than anything he ever expected from her.

He hides his smile behind his mug as he takes another sip of coffee, and again as they finish their drinks in silence, in peace.

* * *

She shows up at his door shortly after three o'clock, her smile shy, her gaze downcast.

And then she looks up at his apartment, the one he bought back when he was successful and hasn't had to give up since, and her eyes go wide.

"Wow," she breathes.

And he's thinking the exact same thing, but not about his home.

About her.

Because she's more beautiful than he could imagine. Her hair hangs over her shoulders in loose curls, a stark contrast to the high ponytails and buns he's used to. And makeup makes her eyes pop even more than they usually do, makes those beautiful flecks of gold stand out more than he thought possible.

She's still wearing a coat, a trench coat that frames her figure perfectly, hiding her dress from view, but he can't imagine it. Can't imagine her looking more beautiful than she does right now.

"You ready?" she asks, and he blinks to see her gaze drift down his body and up again, over the crisp black fabric of his suit, to the blue of his shirt.

He nods. "I'm ready."

And he follows her out the door, stands by her side in the elevator, finds himself sitting in the passenger seat of her Crown Vic.

The wedding is beautiful, brings tears to his eyes, even though he doesn't know Kevin and Jenny beyond the brief introduction he got right before the wedding began.

Her eyes water, too.

And he has a blast at the reception, more fun than he's had in years. Her teammates are fun, and Lanie's ability to make Kate blush has him envious for a little while.

Until he asks her to dance and her cheeks turn beet red, but she lets him swipe the glass of wine from her hand and lead her onto the dance floor.

She drops him off at his building when the sky is as dark as the city lights allow, a smile on her face.

"I had fun," he tells her. "Thank you, for inviting me." And then, after a moment, he leans over the center console to press a gentle kiss to her cheek.

It's only when the elevator doors are closing behind him that he realizes that is _definitely_ against the rules of this friendship.

And that he probably scared her away for good.

* * *

 **As always, a huge thank you goes out to Lindsey for all her help.**


	12. Chapter 12

**Prana**

* * *

He hesitates outside the room, his hand wrapped around the edge of the door as a woman passes him, her ponytail swinging with every step.

Kate's already in the room.

And she's beautiful.

She's wearing the same thing she wears every week, a crew neck shirt and a pair of yoga pants. Except her pants are tighter today, clinging to her legs from hips to ankle and he can't help the way his gaze travels down the length of her body and back up again.

He can't fight the image that springs to mind. Of her in the grey dress she wore to the wedding, of the way she smiled when she ducked out of the crowd, avoiding the bouquet toss, of the way her hand had felt in his, and on his shoulder, when he swept her onto dance floor.

Of how soft her skin had been under the press of his lips.

Of the dream that had haunted him that night, the dream where he peels the dress down her body, kissing every inch of skin he reveals.

The forbidden dream that has lingered in the back of his mind since that night, that refuses to let him see her as _just_ a friend anymore.

Even though he's not sure he ever really did.

With a blink, and a shake of his head, he forces that thought back, that image back, and focuses on the people in the room again.

Focuses on _Kate._

She's stretching now. He recognizes the routine. She bends down and touches her toes, and he forces himself to look away. And then she leans to one, side, and the other. And then she plants her hands on her hips and twists at her torso, turning towards him.

Catching him staring.

His gaze lingers just long enough for him to catch the flush of pink to her cheeks, the dip of her head as she looks away, and he does, too.

But he can't keeping staring at her from the door anymore, not now that she caught him. So, his gaze still locked on the wooden floor, he steps into the room. He adjusts his mat under his arm as he finds his place next to her, lingering for a moment before he bends down and sets it on the floor.

For a second, he thinks he feels her eyes locked on his back, but he can't make himself look up to try and catch her.

He's the one who stares creepily. Not her.

But when he stands back up, she is looking at him, her eyes wide, her cheeks still stained pink. A small smile flirts with the corners of her mouth, and yet as soon as he looks at her, she looks away.

Probably because he kissed her. Because he's her _friend_ and he pushed the limit and Kate Beckett isn't someone who likes to be pushed.

And yet she speaks first.

"Hi."

It's soft, almost shy, and he can't help the shock that makes his heart skip a beat, because maybe she doesn't hate him after all.

Maybe they can pretend it never happened.

"Hey," he returns.

But he doesn't know what else to say, and she doesn't pick up the conversation.

He swallows nervously, turns to face her, and turns away again.

There's nothing to say, and yet he hates the silence between them.

And he finds himself swallowing back a sigh of relief when Miss Nichols appears at the front of the room, announcing the beginning of class.

He'll think of something to say later.

* * *

He hates the silence between them, and the idea of going home without having a conversation with her makes dread weigh heavy in his stomach.

They're friends. She's his best friend.

His _best_ friend.

He can't just…stop talking to her because he's an idiot who wants more than she does, who wants more than she's willing to give. He can't lose the friendship they've built over something as stupid as feelings he was never supposed to have in the first place.

So when the elevator doors slide closed in front of them, trapping them alone, together, in this place that has come to be the home of their friendship, he _can't_ stay quiet.

So he says the first thing that comes to mind.

"Have I ever told you about my friendship with the mayor?"

She turns to him, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. Her arms cross over her chest as she leans back against the metal wall, letting her head fall back with a soft thud.

"You're friends with the mayor?" she asks.

He nods, and finds himself mirroring her position, smiling back at her.

"How did that happen?"

"He's a fan," he answers. "He and his wife came to one of my book launch parties. We met, of course, because you can't have the mayor of New York City at your party and _not_ talk to him."

"Of course you can't." She chuckles. "And here I thought having you in my yoga class was kind of a big deal."

He shrugs. "I thought the same thing about you."

It has her going serious, and his mouth clamps shut, his heart pounding against his ribs. His arms fall from his chest to press against the cold metal walls, and his fingers curl around the railing that frames the room. He holds on tightly, his breath caught in his chest.

She's just a cop.

Well, now she's his friend, but back then, when he first recognized the woman which high cheek bones and earthy green eyes, when he realized who she was, what she had been through… _then_ , she was just a cop.

But he's just a has-been writer who published _one_ thing in the past three years, who published one _flop_ since he killed off Derrick Storm.

She shouldn't have been any more excited to have him in her yoga class than he was to have her in his.

Not that he's going to say that.

Besides, she's the one who speaks, _again,_ cutting through the silence, through the soft whir that fills the quiet of the elevator.

"So, I take it you guys hit it off?"

He blinks, his brows furrowing. "The mayor and I?"

She nods.

He does, too. "Yeah, I guess you could say that," he answers. "We realized we had a shared love of poker, and he ended up inviting me to his next game, with a few of his other friends, including, uh…Roy Montgomery."

His gaze falls, and flicks back up to see recognition flash in her eyes. Her arms tighten around her body, her fingers clutching at the fabric of her shirt.

"Oh," she breathes. "He was my, uh, captain for a few years."

"I know," he says.

A lot of people do. It was all over the papers, his death and then the funeral gone wrong, the picture of her with the bullet in her chest, lying on the ground, tense and bleeding out. The picture of her and her team carrying and the casket down the aisle between rows of headstones.

"He was great man," he adds. "I didn't know him all that well, but he seemed like a great man."

She smiles, her eyes foggy with nostalgia until she blinks it away. "He was," she agrees. the words soft. "He truly was a great man. He was a…hero."

He nods at that, his teeth catching the inside of his lip as his hands knot together. His gaze locks on the tiled floor, on the swirls of brown and grey in the white of marble.

She's a hero, too. Roy Montgomery was a hero, but so is Kate Beckett.

He doubts either one of them have ever known it.

"Can I ask you something?" he whispers.

He forces himself to look up at her, finds her looking back at him. Her eyes are wide with curiosity, with worry, and for a minute he expects her to say no, or to refuse to answer and wait for the elevator to slide to a stop at the ground floor.

But she nods, slow and hesitant, but there all the same.

"Do you have any resentment for him, for Montgomery?" he asks. "I mean, since it was at his funeral that you got shot?"

Her gaze falls again. Her arms fall from around her chest, and she mirrors his position, her hands clutching at the railing that he's holding onto. She takes a deep breath, clutching at the metal like it's grounding her, keeping her from falling apart.

And then she shakes her head, swallows thickly. "No," she answers. "Not for Montgomery. He didn't…do anything. Well, he did, but he tried to protect me. I could never resent him for what he did, and it's not his fault that I got shot."

She looks up at him at that, and that vulnerability he usually feels lucky to see suddenly feels like a curse.

She trusts him, and that's great. But seeing her like this, seeing the effects of everything that's happened to her…it breaks his heart more and more each time.

"I hold resentment for a lot of people, Castle," she says. "But Captain Montgomery isn't, and never will be, one of them."

He nods. "Okay," he whispers. "I was just curious."

She offers him a small smile, nodding her head in something that seems like understanding, or maybe acceptance, and her grip on the railing loosens.

"What was he protecting you from?"

It comes out without his permission, and he shoves his hand into his pockets to keep them from flying up to his mouth, he squeezes his eyes shut to keep them from going wide.

He should have expected it, though.

He never knows when to just shut up and accept what he's already been given.

"That's a long story," she answers.

And _that_ has his eyes going wide.

He accepted a slap, or the silent treatment, or dismissal, not an answer, however quiet and forced and mumbled despite the tight clench of her jaw.

"It's a really long story, Castle, that still doesn't have an ending."

"Can I at least know the beginning?" he asks. "Or the gyst of it?"

She looks up at him again. It's not vulnerability that shines in her eyes this time, though. Nothing shines in them at all. They're dark, somber with pain.

And he wants to reach for her, take her hand or wrap her in his arms, hold her close until the pain fades and all he can see is the ghost of an ache, the bright gleam of vulnerability that he hates, but would take over this any day, any hour.

Instead, he digs his nails into his thighs to fight the urge, offers her the smallest of smile in a feeble attempt to be reassuring.

"He was protecting me from the people who shot me," she whispers.

"The _people_ who shot you?" he asks quietly. "I thought it was a sniper, just one."

She nods. "One person pulled the trigger, yes," she says. "It was just one shooter, but that doesn't mean only one person who shot me, or, well, who had me shot."

His brows furrow. "Do you have reason to believe there was more than one person?"

She shrugs, opening her mouth to answer, but before any words can come out, the elevator slides down, then up again and freezes. With a ding, the doors slide open, revealing a lobby of people, a few of them waiting to step onto the lift.

She turns to look at the room to their left, and then back to him, and he's shocked when the smile that curls at the corners of her lips looks almost apologetic.

"That's a long story, too," she says. "A story for another time."

And when she walks away, he follows close behind, his jaw hanging open, curiosity coursing through him with every pounding beat of his heart..

The mystery of Kate Beckett just keeps getting more complex, and he fears that now he's in too deep to ever make his way back out.

Not that he'd ever want to.

* * *

 **As always, a huge thank you goes to Lindsey for all her help.**


	13. Chapter 13

**Prana**

* * *

He wants to ask.

The questions have swirled in his mind all week, have had his fingers typing her name into his search engine only to delete each letter one at a time, muffling his sigh behind his palm.

He couldn't have done that to her, couldn't have invaded her privacy like that.

They're friends. And in time, she'll tell him. Or she won't. Either way, he can't go searching for answers she's clearly not read to give him. He can't go digging into her past when he's barely privy to the stories of her present.

She's not there when he steps into the room, doesn't show up until after his mat has been rolled out and he's standing on it, feeling the foam give beneath his feet.

And she's…different.

Her hair is pulled back in a high, messy bun, and the smile he's grown to love is stretched across her face, beautiful and happy.

But it's her shirt that catches him off guard.

For as long as he's known, for every week that he's spent standing right next to her, watching her, admiring her, she's always worn the same shirts. The necklines have always been high, the fabric covering the entirety of her chest.

But today…the neckline isn't plunging, but it's still lower than usual, allows him a glimpse of golden skin and the sharp lines of her collarbones.

And while he once assumed that covering herself up was to hide the evidence of her shooting, he can't help but wonder if _this_ is her starting to accept it.

Accept the scars he knows must mark her body.

Accept the trauma he knows she suffered.

And he can't ask _now._

Because she's happy, still smiling as she situates herself next to him. She's wearing the tight pants again, and a different shirt, and she's happy and the question that's haunted him all week gets lost as he swallows it back, forcing himself to return her smile.

"Good day?" he asks.

She turns to him, her gaze locking on his, joy shining bright in the flecks of gold in her eyes. "Yeah," she answers. "We, uh, solved a case just in time for me to not have to stay late doing paperwork, but not spend my whole day doing it either."

He chuckles. "That must be great."

She nods. "It is," she says. "You have no idea how much I hate long days of just paperwork."

And he doesn't. He probably never will. But he can imagine, can picture her sitting at her desk, sipping her coffee too often, swirling her pen aimlessly across the sheet.

"Well, not being a fan of paperwork myself, I certainly understand," he says.

"Oh?" she breathes. "And how much paperwork does an author do?"

He shrugs. "Depends. Are we talking about a successful author, or me?" he asks.

Her gaze darkens at that, going somber as it falls to the floor. She looks back up at him, offers him the slightest of smiles, her fingers clenching into a fist at her side.

"Both," she answers. "You are a successful author, Castle."

He scoffs. "You clearly haven't read my most recent novel," he counters. "It was _horrible._ "

She shrugs. "Doesn't change that you wrote, what, twenty best-sellers before that," she tells him. "You're successful, maybe not recently, but still…successful."

He sighs, shrugging one shoulder.

Because he's not successful. He _was_. And then he killed off Derrick Storm. And then he wrote _Magnum Opus_. And now he's not successful. He's a has-been.

A has-been with a beautiful women reaching over to rest her hand on his arm, leaning forward so her gaze can meet his once again.

"I didn't mean to upset you, Castle," she says.

He shakes his head, reaching up to catch her hand with his. "No," he breathes. "I know."

Of course he knows. After all, she seems to dance around him as much as he tries to step around her. She heals his wounds as much as he wants to heal hers.

"Castle–"

"It's okay," he tries to assure her.

And before Kate can say another word, Miss Nichols' voice booms through the room and Kate steps away, back to her own mat.

He squeezes her hand before letting it go.

* * *

It goes unspoken this time.

It goes completely unspoken, because between Miss Nichols announcing the end of class and him pushing the door to the coffee shop open, she hasn't said a word, and neither has he. They're just…here, in sync and in agreement and stepping into the coffee shop like it's second nature.

Like it's been the plan all along, even though it hasn't been.

She slides into her seat, crossing her legs under the table. Her mat hits the floor, tilted against the edge of her chair. And she leans back, crossing her arms over her stomach, looking up at him with the slightest of smiles gracing the corners of her lips.

Beautiful.

"You gonna sit down?" she asks quietly.

He jumps, nodding as quickly as he can before dropping onto his own chair, leaning forward over the table between them. His foot taps the floor between them.

She still looks happy, and though the question still curls around the tip of his tongue, burns at his brain, he can't bring himself to ask about it.

The last thing she wants to think about right now is probably her shooting.

And then last thing he wants to do right now is make that smile fade from her face.

Besides, the waitress shows up beside their table before he can do something stupid, giving him the few seconds he needs to suck in a slow breath and swallow back the words welling in his chest.

Kate orders her usual, a grande skim latte with two pumps of sugar-free vanilla. He stutters over his own order, receiving a curious glance from her, when he asks the waitress for a cappuccino.

"Are you okay?" asks Kate, once the waitress is gone and they're left alone at their table.

He nods. "I'm fine. I just," he pauses, lifting his hands from the table and leaning back. His palms press against his thighs, and her runs them over the fabric of his pants as he flashes a smile. "How was your week?"

She stares, her head tilting to the side, her teeth catching her lip for a half a second. Her eyes narrow, and then widen again as her shoulders sag.

She still looks a little confused, though. As she should.

"It was fine," she answers, the words soft, genuine, drawing a smile to her face. "It was pretty good, actually."

He smiles, too, can't help it when she's looking at him like that, her gaze soft, her smile sweet. She's still happy, and free and he can't help but remember the woman with tense shoulders and demons burning in her eyes from those first few weeks.

Oh how far she's come.

How far _they've_ come.

"I almost got a dog."

He blinks at that, his head cocking to the side. "You did?"

She doesn't seem like a dog person, not really. She's independent, that much is obvious to anyone who has the pleasure of speaking to her. And she seems rather busy, based on the few times she's rushed into class and situated herself in the back of the room, silent to not disturb others.

But she almost got a dog.

And he can't help but wonder if maybe she's getting tired of being independent and alone, of having nothing to talk about besides work.

"Yeah," she says. "I didn't, though."

"Oh," he breathes, unexplainable disappointment welling in his chest. "Well, what led you to _almost_ get a dog?"

She looks away at that, her hand sliding from where it rests at the table to pick at the fabric of her shirt. "Nothing," she whispers.

He stares for a moment. "It was a case," he says.

It's not a question. It should be a question, but it comes out as a statement.

Because he already knows it's the truth.

He can't remember the last time he's been so sure about something regarding another person. About anything, really.

"Yeah," she repeats, looking up again as the waitress appears beside the table, a mug in each hand. She sets one down in front of Kate, the other in front of him before disappearing again. Kate reaches for hers instantly, taking a small sip and setting it back down.

He does the same, letting the familiar flavor wash across his tongue before swallowing, his gaze sliding back to meet hers.

"You know, I'm not going to disregard your wishes and rush home to write a book about you because you tell me your case involved a dog," he promises.

He wouldn't disregard her wishes and rush home to write a book about her no matter what. He could never do that to her, could never hurt her more than she already has been.

And he could never deal with the pain of losing her because he did something stupid.

He's done enough stupid things recently, has put their friendship on the line enough times. He's not willing to do it again, even though he brain is always stuck on stupid and he probably has no choice in the matter.

"I know," she says.

He's not sure she does.

"So, why didn't you end up getting a dog?" he asks.

She shrugs, even as a laugh escapes her chest. "Turns out the dog, Royal, had a crush on a different dog and chose her over me," she says.

He chuckles. "Men tend to be idiots when it comes to women," he says. "Royal seems to fall into that category."

"I don't know, maybe he's smart," she says. "I'm not in a good place to take care of a dog, with my job and my…PTSD and…everything. He probably made the right decision." Her gaze falls to the swirls in her mug, the drink still barely touched. "I can't really care for anyone right now," she whispers.

And the disappointment that wells in his chest this time, heavy and painful as it steals his breath, is something he's not willing to accept, not willing to face.

"Of course you can," he mumbles. "You might not be equipped to be responsible for a dog, your life might not permit it right now, but you can definitely care about people, Kate. You already do."

Her hands curl tight around her mug, and she takes a long, slow sip of her coffee before setting the cup back down. Her gaze stays locked on the coffee for a little while longer, though, before sliding up to meet his.

"You don't know me, Castle," she whispers.

He shrugs. "I might not know you well, Kate, but I know enough," he tells her. "I know you care enough about your friendship with the people you work with that you were scared to tell them about your PTSD. I know you care about the victims you get justice for, that much was obvious when you told me about the cases. I know you cared to ask about Alexis and my mother, even though you only met them once."

She frowns.

And _oh_ he shouldn't have said anything. He ruined it, wiped away her joy and replaced it with this and he hates himself for it.

And yet his mouth doesn't seem to get the message to shut up.

"I know you care about me," he says. "Otherwise you wouldn't be here, you wouldn't have given me the time of day." He feels his heart swell as her gaze slides up to his, eyes wide with vulnerability. "You wouldn't have invited me to your friend's wedding, or been so glad that I was okay when you breached the bank."

She stares at him.

"You definitely care for people, Kate, even if you can't see it," he whispers. "And if you wanted to, you would be able to be responsible for a dog."

And the slightest of smiles curls at the corners of her mouth as she lifts her coffee again, taking another sip.

"Thank you," she breathes. "For caring, too."

And then he's left staring at her, eyes wide in shock, with nothing to say, no adequate response.

So they finish their coffees in silence, and she covers her half of the bill before leaving, still smiling.

Still happy.

* * *

 **As always, a huge thank you goes out to Lindsey for all her help.**


	14. Chapter 14

**Prana**

* * *

The last thing he expects when he gets to class if to find her waiting for him, staring at the door like he usually does when he's waiting for her. But that's exactly what he finds.

She's standing on her mat, and her face practically lights up when she sees him.

And then she's looking away, her cheeks turning pink at having been caught, like she hasn't caught him doing the exact same thing over and over again. Like she doesn't know he stares at her, admires her, tries to figure out if the flush of her cheeks is because of him or something else.

He pushes that thought aside as he steps into the room, a smile coming across his face when she peeks back, her gaze meeting his for the half second before she turns away.

"Good evening," he greets when he finds his place next to her.

His mat falls to the ground with a soft thud, and he rolls it out with the press of his toe. It's crooked, but it's fine. He toes off his shoes, adjusting the mat slightly with his foot before stepping onto it.

And she finally looks up at him, her gaze shy, but bright with a spark he doesn't recognize.

"Hi," she greets, her voice soft. "Are, we, uh, good for coffee after class again?"

He can't help the widening of his eyes, the slight drop of his jaw and she offers him a smile, a shrug of her shoulder.

"I just have a story I want to tell you, but if you're busy that's fine," she says.

He smiles. "I'm not busy," he promises. "I always have time for coffee with you."

And it feels like it should be too much, should be toeing the boundaries between them, but all it does is make her smile widen, the sparkle in her eyes grow brighter. It makes him wonder if maybe this friendship is becoming more than just companionship during and before yoga.

More than something that will disappear after their last class, like a figment of his imagination.

"Good," she says, nodding slightly. "That you can come, I mean. I think you'll really like the story."

The pink on her cheeks darkens, and she dips her chin this time, drawing his gaze down to the golden skin of her chest, the the barely visible lines of her collarbones, sharp against her smooth skin. He can't help but note that she's wearing a V-neck again, showcasing the comfort that has her shoulders loose and her smile sweet.

He wants to tell her how beautiful she looks, how great it is to see her learning to accept herself, but he's stepped on the line between friendship and more—or less, or _nothing_ —too many times to risk it again. Too many times to expect her to forgive him and keep this friendship going.

So he doesn't say a word, just lets his smile mirror hers, lets his gaze fall just as hers already has.

He adjusts his mat on the floor, lines his shoes up with the edge of the blue foam, stretches just to pass time, until Miss Nichols begins class, just as she always does.

He nods in response to her questions, and sucks in a deep breath when she tells them to do so, watching from the corner of his eye as the tension in Kate's shoulders fades.

And he wishes it could do the same for him. He wishes he could learn to accept himself the way she already has.

* * *

She's even more peaceful, even sweeter, when they slide into their seats at the coffee shop. Her eyes are bright, and there's a slight bounce in her step, a sway to her hips that only fades when she drops onto her chair.

She doesn't lean back today, doesn't offer a shy smile as they wait for the waiter or waitress to come and take their order. Instead, she leans forward, her arms crossed over the table, her eyes still sparkling with the promise of a story she wants to tell him.

And he can't help the slight upturn of his lips when he leans forward with her, drawn in by the warmth of her smile.

"So, this story you're so excited to tell me?" he breathes.

She nods. "It's from our case, which I know I said I wouldn't tell you about, but I just…you would love it. And it's not an actual investigation, or our case, so…I want you to know," she tells him, her eyes sparkling with delight when his smile widens.

"Okay, so, tell me," he breathes.

Her lips part, her eyes falling closed for half a second only to open back into his, but before she can say another word, a waitress shows up beside their table, a smile on her face, dark hair pulled back into a ponytail.

It's the same waitress as last week.

"The usual?" she asks. "One grande skim latte with two pumps of sugar free vanilla and one cappuccino?"

Kate meets his gaze for half a second before nodding, and the waitress walks away, a smile on her face. He's left sitting there, staring.

They have a usual. And Kate just answered for both of them.

And she's smiling at him again, wide and happy as she crosses her arms over the table, leaning forward once again. "Now you ready?" she asks.

He nods. "More than ready."

Her smile widens. "Okay, so during our case we found this journal. It was written in 1947 by a private investigator named Joe Flynn. It was a love story, Castle, that wasn't all in the journal, but we found out what happened to them, how they…fell in love."

He nods his understanding, his heart lifting at the light in her eyes, the glimpse of the romantic in her, of this part of her he never gets to see.

It's beautiful.

It has his mind wandering way too far, to images of her wrapped in his arms, to the idea of swaying with her to the soft sound of music, to the desire to press his lips against hers. To things he's not allowed to feel, much less think about, _dream_ about.

He blinks them away, nodding again even though she hasn't said another word.

"Okay," he breathes. "How did they fall in love?"

"So Joe was a P.I. here in New York, and he was hired by this woman named Sally to find her sister, Vera Mulqueen," she begins. "And he went to clubs all over the city before finding her at the Penny Baker Club. Tom Dempsey, the mobster? She was his girlfriend, but it was love at first sight for Vera and Joe."

He can't imagine what that feels like. Or he can. He's not sure. Because now he's remembering when Kate first rushed into yoga class, that moment of instant intrigue that had his heart stopping, his mind running wild.

It wasn't love. It was curiosity. It was recognition.

But he wonders if that might be what love at first sight feels like.

It can't be.

"So, that first day Vera and Joe were caught staring at each other across the club, in a trance, already falling in love. Dempsey had his enforcers rough Joe up, you know?" He nods. "But he went back. He couldn't resist her, and she couldn't resist him, so they started an affair."

Her eyes flash away this time, to the waitress coming towards him. She slides one ceramic mug in front of Kate, the other in front of him before turning away with nothing but a curt nod.

And Kate takes a small sip before turning back to him.

"They were caught together, but the club's singer, Betsy Sinclair, covered for them. Joe got scared about Dempsey finding out, though, and thought of breaking it off," she continues. "And Vera suggested that they elope and run away with this necklace Dempsey gave her, the blue butterfly."

" _The_ blue butterfly?" he repeats, unable to resist. He's heard of this jewelry, the legend, and it's always intrigued him how it just disappeared.

"Yes, _the_ blue butterfly."

"Did they run away?" he asks.

She shakes her head. "Joe thought it would be too dangerous, with Dempsey's thugs always tailing Vera. Then Vera mentioned that, when she wasn't wearing the necklace, Dempsey kept it in a safe. Joe tried to figure out how to break into it, but deemed it impossible, so they devised a plan for her to escape with the necklace while Dempsey and his men were distracted with some boxing match."

He nods.

He can picture it now, a woman as beautiful as Kate, spoiled by her mobster boyfriend but in love with another man. So in love she's willing to leave it all behind to be with him. A woman as beautiful as Kate and a P.I. that looks suspiciously like the man he used to see in the mirror, before everything fell apart around him.

"That's when Joe's secretary forced him to tell Vera why he was at the Penny Baker Club in the first place, and it turns out that, Castle, Vera didn't have a sister named Sally at all."

He gasps, soft and unintentional, but it has her lips curling back into a smile, her eyes sparkling with satisfaction.

Her tone is laced with passion, with interest when she continues.

"They went through with the plan. Vera left the club during the boxing match and met Joe out in the alley, but before they would run away, they were confronted by none other than Sally and her husband, Lenny," she says. "Turns out Sally's mother was Dempsey's girl before he left her for Vera, and that led Sally's mom to kill herself. Sally had hired Joe to get Vera away from Dempsey so she could get revenge."

He manages to swallow back a gasp this time, manages to fight the well of worry in his chest. Kate said this story was inspiring, not tragic.

The light in her eyes tells him it can't be tragic.

"There was a struggle," she continues. "Sally accidentally shot her husband and then accidentally shot herself and…Joe and Vera were fine. They put the bodies in Joe's car and lit it on fire, and knowing the cops would assume it was them in the car, they ran away."

"With the necklace?" he asks.

She shakes her head. "Vera thought the necklace was cursed, so she tucked it behind a loose brick in the building before they left."

He nods. "And they're still…"

"Together?" she finishes, and upon his nod, she smiles. "Yeah, they are. And so in love, Castle. I had my doubts at first. They had only known each other for like a week before running away together, but seeing them together…they're still so in love. They have four kids, seven grandchildren and two great-grandchildren and they…they know how important their love is. More important than any necklace."

He smiles. "Wow."

She nods. "Amazing isn't it?"

It is. So is the look in her eyes, still locked on his, when she brings her mug to her mouth and takes another sip of her latte. Joy makes the flecks of gold in her irises stand out, has the corners of her lips still upturned.

And he hates himself for the untimely desire to press his mouth against hers.

He'd been doing so good with this friendship thing, with staring at the line in the sand, drawn between them and keeping himself from stepping over it, or stepping on it. And now she's staring at him with wide eyes, showing him the hopeless romantic that she kept hidden.

"Yeah," he agrees. "It's amazing."

"And inspiring?"

She sounds oddly hopeful this time, and he isn't sure if it's because she wants him to be inspired to write about something other than her, or…for some other reason he doesn't know.

A few weeks ago, he would have assumed the first, but now his heart is stuttering, telling him to trust her, to trust this friendship budding between them and the light in her eyes.

"Unfortunately, very little inspires me nowadays," he tells her.

She shrugs. "There has to be something."

And then her mouth clamps shut as his gaze falls from hers, her teeth clashing together because she already knows the answer. She already knows what inspires him.

She does.

His gaze flicks back up to hers, sees the worry in her eyes. "Don't worry about it," he says.

She nods, but the guilt painted across her features is the same as what he seems in his reflection the next morning, after a dream of Joe and Vera turned to an image of himself, leaning over the table in that coffee shop and smudging Kate's smile with his own.

* * *

 **As always, a huge thank you goes to Lindsey for all her help.**


	15. Chapter 15

**Prana**

* * *

"You okay?"

He blinks, his grip on the mug tightening as his head tilts back, upwards, so he can meet her gaze.

Her brows are furrowed, her eyes narrowed with confusion, and her hand sits on the table between them, her fist clenching like she's trying not to grab for something. Her lips are twisted into a frown, worry shining in the green of her irises.

"Yeah," he answers. "I'm fine."

But he might not be, he's not sure that he is, because when he got the call from an old friend that she had died…that she had had a plan to start World War III…it was something he never saw coming. Something that had him debating staying home from yoga class and re-reading the parts of his books featuring Clara Strike, wondering how he was so wrong.

And yet here he is, after class, staring at Kate across the table.

Pretending she isn't the only reason he showed up in class today.

"You sure?" she asks, and her fist loosens as she reaches across the table, takes his hand in hers like he does when she's upset. "You can tell me if you're not. That goes both ways, you know."

He smiles, can't help it when she's staring at him like she is. Like she actually does like him, like she cares, like she wants to know about his pain as much as he wants to wash hers away.

And with a stutter of his heart, a squeeze of his fingers around hers, he finds himself believing her, feels his lips parting around the truth. Around things he would have never told anyone before her, but her.

"I found out an old friend died today," he tells her. "And…other stuff that make me wish I was never her friend because…she did some really horrible things."

Kate's eyes widen, sympathy seeping into her gaze as she squeezes his hand back, her grip tight, comforting, toeing the lines of friendship, the barricades between them.

"What happened?" she asks, her voice curious, concerned.

He lets out a breath, feels his chest caving in with it. "She was shot, but it was…she was dangerous," he breathes, like an admission of guilt. That's what it feels like, that's what has his gaze falling from hers to the untouched cappuccino sitting between them. "She would have killed a lot of people," he says, keeping his voice low, below the hush of the restaurant, "so it's…for the better."

"But it still hurts?" It comes out as a question, but her eyes aren't asking one when he looks back up at her, finds her still staring back at him.

The look in his eyes must be answer enough, because her shoulders sag, but her hand only tightens around his.

"It's okay to be upset, Castle," she whispers. "No matter how horrible she was, she was your friend, at some point, and that…it's okay to be sad after you lose a friend."

He wants to tell her she doesn't understand, but what Sophia was out to do is classified. It's a secret that he wishes he didn't know, that he wishes he could share. That he wishes he could tell her, confide in her the way she confided in him when she told him about her PTSD, when she shared the vague details of the conspiracy that drives her.

"How did you guys meet?"

He blinks, his vision snapping back into focus. "She was an…inspiration of sorts, I guess," he admits.

The disappointment that flickers across her face, the way her gaze falls for only half a second before flicking back up to his, is something he can't unsee. Something he can't pretend _isn't_ his fault.

"I followed her around at her job to be properly informed about…her job," he adds. "For a character in the Derrick Storm series."

"Oh," she breathes, the disappointment in her eyes, in the pressed line of her smile seeping into her voice. "Do you do this often?"

He blinks, lets his gaze fall to their hands. Her fingers are still wrapped around his, small but warm and comforting despite the pain written across her face. And he looks back up at her, finds her staring down at their hands, too, blinking once, then twice and a third time.

"Do what?" he asks.

She shrugs. "Ask random women to inspire a character in your books?" It's a mumble, so soft, so shy that he barely hears her.

But he does. And he hears the dejection in her words, too.

And he _hates_ that he put that there.

Shifting in his seat, he reaches forward with his free hand. His fingers circle her wrist, his palm landing over the back of hers. He wraps his hands around her smaller one, squeezing gently to draw her gaze back to his.

The vulnerability shining in her eyes, the effect of his words, is the last thing he expected. Something about it makes his heart lift with a stuttering beat.

"It's not random," he says.

A promise, the truth.

"With Sophia, it was mostly because of her job, and tidbits of her personality, but mostly her job," he continues. "With you…it's…" He sucks in a breath at the look in her eyes, the flicker of curiosity, of emotion that he knows must be reflected in his own.

She looks…happy. She looks like his answer matters.

She looks like she might dream of him the way he dreams of her.

And that has his heart skipping a beat, his pulse jumping, his breath getting caught in his throat. She _can't._ She can't think of him the way he thinks about her.

Because she's…extraordinary. And he's…him.

"It's not random."

His gaze is locked on hers, on the green of her irises, the joy shining in them. Her hand is still trapped between his, and his thumb runs along hers. Her muscles twitch beneath his touch.

"It is so far from random."

She nods, slight, like she doesn't want to break the lock of their eyes, the trance that seems to have settled over them. And her hand curls tighter around his, the one she's been holding all along.

"Do you really have an idea?" she asks. "For a book…based on me?"

He sucks in a breath.

That's a loaded question, one with so many answers, so many secrets he's kept hidden, that he's forced himself not to type out during long evenings spent sitting at his desk. And he can't be sure which answer she wants, which one he should say with her staring at him like that.

Her eyes are still wide, shining with something he barely recognizes, something foreign yet beautiful. d

And the truth comes spilling from his lips.

"There's more than one," he says. "All the same beautiful, strong, kickass detective, based on you, but with different cases, different situations. But they're all…inspired by you."

She nods, her lips parting like she wants to say something, but now words come out. She doesn't say a word as her hand slips from his, wraps around her coffee cup instead. She takes a small sip, and his gaze stays locked on her when she sets the cup back down.

And she doesn't say a word.

* * *

It's almost nine o'clock when his phone goes off, vibrating, shifting on the surface of his desk, and a text notification with her name pops up.

It's the last thing he expected.

And yet he draws the phone towards him, swiping his thumb across the screen to open the messages app. His conversation with her is empty, spare for this one, sudden message that has his heart leaping into his throat, his breath caught in his chest.

 _You free?_

His thumb slides across the screen, typing out his reply, a simple _yes_ because he has no idea what she's getting at, what she may want.

Why she's suddenly texting him in the evening, long past the end of their yoga class and coffee.

His phone goes off again, vibrating in his palm this time, a new message appearing on the screen.

 _I'm downstairs._

Now _that's_ the last thing he expected, the last thing he saw coming. And his already racing heart jumps, his breath being released on a stuttering exhale just as another message pops up.

 _Can I come up?_

He types out his reply without thought, without question, nodding his head to himself even though she can't see him. The urge to jump out of his seat and wait for her at the door is strong, but he forces himself to stay planted in his chair, to fight against the surge of energy and emotion that's suddenly streaming through his veins.

And he still has no idea why she's here.

When he hears the knock he jumps, forces himself to stay calm as he walks through the apartment. He checks the peephole, even though he knows it's her.

She's smiling when the door swings open, her eyes alight with that same thing that was shining in them earlier. And then it fades, almost instantly, to be replaced by awe as her gaze lands of the apartment behind him, the spacious living room and kitchen, the doors leading to places she's never been.

"Wow," she breathes. "You have a really nice place."

He shrugs, stepping aside to let her step in. The awe never fades from her eyes, her mouth falling open as her gaze scans the room over and over again.

That look in her eyes…he wishes he could see it more often.

"I knew you were well-off, but this is…wow," she breathes.

He shrugs again. "Yeah, well, I bought the place before…everything went wrong, writing-wise," he admits.

She nods, turning on her heel. She's out of her yoga clothes, he realizes, in a pair of jeans that hugs her hips and the long tines of her legs, a coat that makes her waist look tiny and a pair of killer heels like he only saw her wear when he accompanied her to the wedding.

This must be how she dresses on a normal day, when she doesn't have to work or do yoga or attend a wedding. And she's beautiful, with her hair pinned back and a smile on her face, her hands curled tight around the fabric of her jacket.

"That's actually why I'm here," she says, the words soft. "I wanted to…talk to you."

He smiles. "I kinda figured," he admits. "Unless you're secretly here to see Alexis or my mother."

She shakes her head, laughter bubbling up from her chest, her cheeks turning a soft shade of pink. "No," she breathes. "I'm here to see you. To…talk to you."

"Okay," he says. "To talk to me about…what?"

Her gaze falls, and then darts around the room, along the white of the counters and the back of the couch in the living room. Her gaze lands on the entrance to his office, the bookshelves that double as walls, and steps towards it without giving him an answer.

He finds himself following her, curiosity creasing his brow as she steps around the edge of the bookshelf, and through the gaps between the books, he sees her gaze scan the spines of the novels.

And then she reaches for one, draws it from its place and walks back around the shelves so she's standing in front of him. The book is clutched between her palms, and he recognizes the cover immediately.

 _In a Hail of Bullets_

"My mom read this book," she whispers. "I still have her copy. You signed it once." Her gaze slides from the cover of the book to him, wide and vulnerable. "She loved this book, read it and a few of your other ones so many times before she died."

"Kate–"

She shakes her head, and thrusts the book at his chest. His fingers curl around the edges of it, but she doesn't let go, just keeps staring at him.

"I've read all your books," she admits. "Even _Magnum Opus,_ Castle, which was admittedly _horrible,_ but otherwise you are a great writer." She lets go of the book, her hands falling to her sides, her eyes staying locked on his. "You're a great writer with no inspiration. Or, well, no inspiration willing to let you write about her."

He shakes his head, reaching for her, one hand still clutched tightly around the book. "Kate–"

She shakes her head back at him.

And he wants to interrupt her, wants to tell her that she shouldn't be doing this out of guilt, or because Sophia died, or because of her mother. That him not writing about her is okay, and that he'd rather respect her wishes than make her feel forced to let him write about her.

But she's standing tall, her gaze locked on his, her breathing steady. She looks…sure.

His mouth clamps shut, and he nods for her to continue, and even though he expected it, even though he knew what she was about to say, her words shock him, have his heart leaping and breath escaping with a stuttering exhale.

"I want you to write the book about me, Castle. I want you to write again."

* * *

 **This chapter puts me over the thirty thousand word mark for the ficathon just in the nick of time, so yay for that. That being said, a huge thank you goes out to Lindsey, as always. I couldn't have done it without her.**


	16. Chapter 16

**Prana**

* * *

"I started writing it."

She looks up at him with wide eyes, a smile spreading across her face, joy sparkling in her irises. "Yeah?" she breathes, and he nods. Her gaze drifts to the floor, and back up the length of his body. "I thought you might have."

"Oh?"

Her gaze falls, her cheeks turning pink. "You just seem…different," she whispers. "I mean, you seem happier, and less insecure, and I thought it might have something to do with doing what you love." She shrugs, meeting his eyes again. "I know I felt better when returned to the precinct after…everything."

His eyes drop to the center of her chest, to the scar he's sure is hidden behind her shirt. She's still wearing V-necks to yoga, showcasing her exposed chest, comfortable in her own skin like he never thought he'd see back on that first week. He blinks, and looks up again, finds her smiling at him.

It has him puzzled. He expected a glare.

"Yes, that," she whispers. "But I survived, I got past it." Her gaze flicks down, and back up again. "What about you? Do you think this is what you needed to get out of your funk?"

He smiles, can't help it with her staring up at him like that, with the memory of words coming to him so easily, of working on an idea he knows will result in something good. The satisfaction is something he hasn't known in years, something he almost forgot the power of.

Something he now owes to her.

"Yeah," he whispers. "I think this might be exactly what I needed. Th–"

The elevator dings, and the doors slide open, the digital screen above them shining with the letter _G._ It cuts him off, keeps him from muttering the _thank you_ she deserves, that curls around the tip of his tongue. But she's already stepping off the lift, switching places with a man in a suit, and he follows without thought, running to catch up to her.

She pushes the front door to the building open, turning back to smile at him. "Coffee?"

He nods. "Sounds perfect."

Her shoulder bumps against his on the walk to the coffee shop just down the block, their conversation having fallen silent, replaced by the sounds of the street. He holds the door open for her when they step into the coffee shop, and the soft smile she offers in thanks is enough to make his heart skip a beat.

Even though his heart is not supposed to be skipping beats. Not because of her, at least.

The waitress comes over right away, confirms that they do, in fact, want their regular and then leaves, and he turns back to Kate, a smile curving his mouth upwards.

"So, did you close that case?" he asks.

She shrugs. "Yeah. It was an…unusual case," she answers. "Kind of ruined fairytales for me, though. Not that I was a big fan of them before."

He gasps, only half joking when he presses a hand against his chest. "You don't like fairytales?" he asks. "How could you not like fairytales?"

She doesn't answer this time, offering him a laugh instead. "Why do I feel like I should have known you would be a fairytale fan?" she asks, but she doesn't give him a chance to answer. "Oh, right, because you are _so_ the guy that would cry at a happy ending for two fictional, cartoon characters."

"I don't cry," he argues, before sinking back into his seat. "Not _every_ time, at least."

She chuckles. "Oh, well that's _much_ better," she says. "So, tell me, what do you see in fairy tales, Mr. Best-Selling Author?"

He shrugs. "I like the happy ending," he answers, watching her smile widen. "It might not be true to life," he continues, his gaze falling to her chest, for half a second, "but I think it's important to show people that it's possible _._ It's not a guarantee, but it's _possible._ " He catches her gaze, the slight quirk of her lips, the slight nod of her head, and smiles. "What about you? Why don't you like them?"

She shrugs one shoulder. "I guess I find them…over-dramatic and unrealistic," she answers.

He scoffs. "You want over-dramatic and unrealistic?" he says. "You should see my mother's one-woman show she's screening on Saturday."

His gaze catches hers again, and this time her eyes are wide, her lips slightly parted. She blinks, and the corner of her mouth curls upwards into a small, shy smile.

"Is that an invitation?" she asks, the words barely audible over the sounds of the cafe.

He smiles back at her. "If you want it to be."

Her gaze falls, darts around the room, traces the tables and the walls before sliding back to his, joy dancing in the flecks of gold of her irises. The words she speaks are so quiet he has to lean forward to catch them, but the smile on her face tells him everything he needs to know.

"I want it to be."

* * *

Her hand is warm in his, resting on his thigh, her fingers curled around his as she stares at his mother. Her laughter lingers, echoing in his head, even as his mother's arms fall to her sides, and she bows to end the show, the surprisingly real account of her life.

And Kate stares, happy and at ease, and as his mother thanks everyone for coming, and Alexis rushes off to the door, he finds himself staring at the curls of amber hair falling over Kate's shoulder.

She's beautiful.

And it's odd, having her in his home, with his family, but once everyone is gone, his mother offering him a smile before escaping to her room with a bottle of white wine and a glass, Kate turns towards him. She seems comfortable, a smile spread across her face, her eyes alight with happiness.

"Should I go, too?" she breathes.

He shakes his head. "You can stay," he answers. "I want you to stay."

She nods. And she stays, lingering on the couch when he swipes her glass of wine away to refill it. He returns to find her tucked into a corner of the couch, her legs drawn up in front of her, her feet hanging off the cushion. She reaches for the glass when he holds it out to her, and hums softly at the first sip.

"Thank you," she whispers.

He reaches for her, his hand landing on her knee, without thought. But he can't help but note that she doesn't go tense, doesn't even flinch. Like all of this is normal.

It feels like it should be.

"No," he breathes. "Thank _you_ , for coming."

She smiles. "I'm glad I did," she says, like it's a confession, her cheeks blooming pink. "It was nice seeing Martha and Alexis again, under better circumstances. And you…outside of yoga class and coffee."

"Yeah?" he asks, and she nods. "It's nice seeing you…outside of yoga class and coffee, too."

And her smile widens. He watches as her gaze falls, and she brings her glass to her lips and takes another sip of her wine, and another. It's her third glass since she got here, and she leans back to set it down on the table behind her. When she turns to face him again, her hand falls to rest over his, still on her knee.

"So, tell me about the book you're writing," she says.

His brows rise, his hand tightening around her knee. "You want to know?" he asks.

She shrugs. "Of course I want to know," she answers. "Besides, I'm the inspiration. I think that warrants some inside knowledge, doesn't it?"

He smiles, and this time the way he squeezes her leg is completely intentional. "Of course it does," he agrees, because he's powerless to deny her anything when she's staring at him like that, all wide eyes and sweet smiles, and her hand warm over his when her fingers curl into his palm.

So he tells her about the book, about Jameson Rook and Nikki Heat. The name has her scoffing, and asking him to change it, and the backstory has her eyes going somber, but he still gets her approval to use it, after squeezing her hand and assuring him that he will change it, if that's what she wants. It seems to be, and yet she looks up at him and smiles, tells him to write the story he wants to write, and that the backstory is perfect.

And he wants to kiss her, or pull her into his arms in thanks. But he doesn't, because despite the wine, and the press of her knees against his thigh, that's against the rules.

It's too much for friendship, more than she would ever want from him, no matter how much the look in her eyes has him doubting his assessment of the situation.

She looks…beautiful. She looks open, and free, and almost loving, and when he tries to describe the plot of the book in old English, she laughs so hard he's reaching forward to snag her fourth glass of wine from her hand before it spills.

It's only after that that she seems to realize the time, her eyes going wide as they land on the clock hanging on the wall. He almost hates it.

But then she's squeezing his hand, and leaning towards him. "I should go," she whispers. "It's getting late."

He shakes his head. "You don't have to," he says. "You said you're just on call tomorrow, right? So you don't have to go in early?"

She nods, but her lower lip is already caught between her teeth.

"Then stay," he says. "You could take the guest room upstairs, wait for the wine to wear off before driving home. Mother and Alexis won't mind."

She smiles, and squeezes his hand once more. "I'm sure they wouldn't. You have a very welcoming family, Castle," she breathes. "But I'll be fine. I'll take a cab home. You don't have to…I don't have to stay."

He opens his mouth to argue, turns his head towards her and–

Her lips land on his, right on the corner of his mouth and she pulls back as quickly as she leaned in, her eyes going wide, her lips parting on a gasp.

And he just stares, dumbfounded, shocked.

Because there was a spark. A definite spark, even in just the slightest of touches, the barely there press of her lips against his.

There's a spark between them, and he should have expected it but…what if she didn't feel it, too?

She must have been aiming for his cheek, the wine making her brave, and had he not turned his head, this wouldn't have happened. That line would not have been crossed.

The spark would still be a secret, speculation.

"I'm so–"

She cuts him off, leaning forward again, pressing her mouth against his again. Harder this time, _intentional_ , and it only takes a second for him to be reaching for her, his hands curling around her hips, drawing her up onto her knees. Her hands find his face, framing his jaw, combing through his hair, drifting over the stubble on his chin as her tongue traces the seam of his lips.

 _Oh_ , so she definitely felt it— _feels_ it—too.

And yet he pulls away rather than opening up for her, despite every beat of his heart, despite the heat coursing through him, telling him to do otherwise.

"Kate," he whispers. "You're– The wine?"

Her thumb brushes across his cheek. "I'm not drunk," she tells him. "Tipsy, at most. I know exactly what I'm doing."

He squeezes her hips. "And what are you doing?" he breathes.

She leans forward again, dusts a kiss to his parted lips only to pull away with a smile. "What we've both wanted for a while," she answers. But then insecurity sweeps across her features, pinching her brow. "Right?"

He nods, and his hand flies up to cradle the back of her head, to bring her mouth back down to his, softer this time, sweeter.

Another thing he's _really_ wanted for what feels like forever now.

It's even better than he ever thought it would be.

Her fingers cradle the back of his neck, and she pushes herself up onto her knees, and she's sliding into his lap, her thighs bracketing his, her tongue sweeping across the roof of his mouth, her body perfectly aligned with his.

And then she's the one pulling away, combing her fingers through his hair, her foggy gaze, dark eyes catching his. "You sure?" she whispers.

His hands drift down her back to cup her ass and draw her against him, and her gasp echoes through the room, and he swallows her moan.

His answer is a brush of his lips against hers, just before he stands and takes her with him.

"I'm sure."

And her smile is all the reassurance he needs…

Until she's gone when he wakes up the next morning.

* * *

 **Sorry for the delay in getting this up, but I hope it was worth the wait. (Also Lindsey promised me this doesn't suck, so if it does you can blame her. _Just kidding_ , she actually deserves all the thanks in the world).**


	17. Chapter 17

**Prana**

* * *

When the elevator doors slide open, revealing the yoga class, his eyes instantly land on her.

She's standing on her mat, and she turns at the sound of the ding of the elevator, her gaze landing on him just as he steps off the lift. Her cheeks turn pink, and a small smile curls at the corners of her mouth, but he looks away before it can send his heart racing.

Because she left, without waking him, with nothing but a text message telling him she had a body drop and had to leave early.

And the anger still blooms in his chest, red across his cheeks, but most of it has since been replaced with embarrassment, with the memories of everyone that's turned him down before, of everyone who left without a word and never spoke to him again.

The red stain on his cheeks is no longer because of anger. It's because he's just now recognizing his own stupidity.

How could anyone as beautiful and strong as she is ever want anyone like him?

How could he ever think someone as beautiful and strong as she is could want _him_?

He swallows back a sigh, stepping deeper into the classroom, and busies his trembling hand by readjusting his yoga mat under his arm, only to draw it free a second later. His gaze drifts to her, up the long length of her legs, and the memory of how they felt wrapped around him flashes into his mind, forbidden.

So he stares at the dark blue material of his yoga mat instead, his gaze tracing the logo of the company that made it.

That is, until his shoes are off, untied and everything, in a last ditch attempt to waste time, and he has no reason to keep bending down. He has no reason to keep avoiding her, so he straightens his spine, forces his shoulders square. The fact that they're tense, that his mind is running wild, is so not conducive to the whole yoga thing.

He can't make it stop, though.

Especially when she reaches over and curls her fingers around his arm, leaning forward so her gaze locks on his. Her green eyes are wide with confusion, shining with worry.

"You okay?" she breathes.

He shrugs, so her hand falls from his arm, and she leans back so she's standing over her own mat. But he still feels her eyes locked on the side of his head, can still feel the confusion radiating off her, the question burning between them.

He shrugs. "Yeah," he lies.

His gaze finally slides to her, and he finds her tugging at the fabric of her shirt, discomfort making her fidget. It has his heart sinking, but anger remains, embarrassment lingering, driving him swallow back the honest answer that wells in his chest.

She looks so nervous, so confused, and it would break his heart if not for the memory of his empty bed, the only evidence of her in the pulled back sheets, and the text that went unanswered.

Her lips part, like she wants to say something, but before she can utter a word, Ms. Nichols appear at the front of the room, her voice booming, cutting off whatever Kate wanted to say.

The look in her eyes when she looks away from him, the pain that lingers in them, almost makes him regret everything.

Except every time he blinks, he still see her, beautiful and naked beneath him, her lips locked on his, and then the empty space where she was supposed to be in the morning. And then he feels a little better.

It's not enough to lift the weight in his chest, though.

* * *

She rolls up her mat as quickly as she can, and he watches from the corner of his eyes as she jams her feet into her shoes and holds the mat under her arm. The roll is loose, looks like it will unravel at any moment, but she just stands next to him, staring him down until he copies her movements.

He goes much slower, though, taking the time that it takes for the class to empty as he stalls. She doesn't move, doesn't waver, her stance strong. He imagines it might be how she stares down a suspect in the interrogation room, or a killer as she slaps cuffs on their wrists.

He would hate to be sitting across from her in that room. Even though he feels like he might be right now.

The class is almost empty when he finally finishes lacing up his shoes, when he shoves his mat under his arm and turns to face her, to see the anger burning in the green of her eyes. Her mouth is pressed into a thin line, her gaze following his every movement, even when he shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

"You ready to go?" she asks, an edge to her voice that has his spine snapping straight.

Because despite the anger that simmers beneath the surface of his skin, he's powerless to push her away completely.

She might just be under his skin, too, even though she isn't supposed to be.

He was never supposed to let this happen.

And yet he nods, and she reaches over to curl her hand around his elbow and drag him towards the elevator. She slams her fist to the button to call the lift, and doesn't under a word until the doors slide open to reveal the small, empty space.

He's not sure if it's good or bad that the elevator is empty today.

She draws him with her, hitting the buttons for the ground floor and to close the doors, like she thinks he's going to run.

Even though she's the one that ran.

The doors slide closed and she releases him, stepping back to press herself against the wall. Anger is bright in her eyes, lighting up the pool of confusion and…uncertainty as she looks back at him.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" she spits.

He doesn't miss the slight waver of her voice.

"Is this what happens? I sleep with you and you go back to your old M.O.?" This time, the words are thick with insecurity, and her arms cross over her chest, stopping the barely visible quivering of her hands. "You know, have sex with them and then never speak to them again?"

The words are sharp, cut straight to his chest, putting a heavy weight there. They have him stepping back, so he's pressed against the opposite side of the elevator, staring back at her, at his reflection in the metal walls.

"You left," he seethes back at her, his hands curling tight around the railing at his back.

She rolls her eyes at that. "Yeah," she confirms, "because I had a body drop and had to leave to go to a crime scene." Her gaze softens, the thin line of her lips softening to a look of confusion. "Didn't you get my text? Or any of the ones I sent after?"

And she's staring at him like she's genuinely afraid that he didn't, like she's _hurt_ that he could think she would just leave like that, and it has him hating himself for his answer.

"Yeah, I got the texts."

Sadness seeps onto her features, drawing her eyes closed and her lips down in a frown that he wishes he could wipe away. That he wishes he didn't put there.

"I just thought the body drop was an…out," he adds.

That has her gaze flitting back up to his, her brows furrowing in confusion. "Why would you think that?" she asks.

His mouth snaps shut around the answer that wells in his chest, trapping it there. His grip on the railing tightens, wrists twisting around it. His stomach sinks, heavy with the bitter flavor of unwelcome memories, of unwelcome images of the empty side of his bed.

Of Kate, gone.

It only takes her half a second to realize it, and he sees the flash in her eyes the moment she does. Her shoulders loosen, and she takes a step forward, a breath escaping her, quiet but loud in the small space of the elevator.

" _Oh._ "

"Yeah."

Because it's happened before, so many times, _too_ many time. A woman would sleep with him while drunk, buzzed by alcohol, and in the morning she would be gone with no note, or a lame excuse, and they would never speak again.

Because without the alcohol, sleeping with him seems much less like a good idea.

"It wasn't an excuse, Castle. I would never do that to you," she says, the words soft. She takes a step forward, closing most of the distance between them. "Besides, I had a lot of fun that night." She grins up at him. "A _lot_ of fun."

And weight in his chest lifts at the glint in her eye, the quirk of her lips, the memories widening her pupils, stealing his breath.

"So did I," he agrees.

Her grin widens, and then it's pressed to his lips, her tongue sliding into his mouth with hesitation. Her hands curl around the fabric of his shirt, tugging at the neckline as her mat falls from under her arm to unravel at their feet. It has her pulling away, laughing, kicking at it in a feeble attempt to get it to roll back up.

"I need to get an elastic or something for that thing," she whispers.

And then she's turning around and stepping away from him. She bends down, reaching for the end of her yoga mat, probably to roll it back up.

It's a wonder his has stayed locked under his arm this whole time.

Especially now, with the memory of her lips locked on his remaining so very fresh in his mind, and the image of her bending over, her ass in the air, the fabric of her yoga pants stretched tight.

He remembers everything about that night. He remembers how his hands would drift down her back, curl around her ass and jerk her hips against his, drawing a gasp from her chest.

"Castle?"

He blinks, his heart pounding now, blood rushing south as she stares at him. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes wide, pupils dark with desire. His name echoes through the elevator, shaky on her breath as she stares back at him.

The mat is wedged under her arm again, and he has to remind himself not to do anything that'll make it fall to the floor again.

Instead, he swallows thickly, his gaze catching hers. "Have I ever told you how good you look in yoga pants?"

She chuckles, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "You haven't," she answers, her eyes flicking down to his mouth, her tongue sliding over her own lips.

He's the one that steps forward this time, closing the distance between them, pressing her against the elevator wall, his leg wedging between her thighs. She clutches at him with her free hand, a gasp escaping her as her head tilts back to press against the wall of the elevator.

His gaze falls as she adjusts the mat under her arm again. "You really should get an elastic for that," he tells her, even though he doesn't have one for his mat, either.

His is leaning against the wall in the corner of the small room. He doesn't need it getting in the way.

She doesn't say anything, just rolls her eyes, only for them to slam shut when he slants his mouth over hers, letting his tongue slick against hers, and her hips rock against his thigh.

And then the elevator is jerking upwards and sliding to a stop, a soft ding announcing their arrival at the ground floor and he steps back, reaching behind him to grab the rolled up mat. He watches as she tries to straighten her clothing and adjust the ponytail sitting high on her head.

When the doors slide open, revealing a handful of people waiting there, he knows there's no hiding what they were doing.

After all, her shirt is still crooked and hiked up around her waist, and her hand is combing through the strands of her hair.

He follows her off the lift, his gaze locked on the back of her head, on the swinging of her ponytail. Her fingers curl against the plastic of her yoga mat, and she stops at the doors. Her hand curls around the handle, pushing the door open, but before stepping out of the building, she turns to face him. Her gaze falls pointedly, to the strategically placed yoga mat, and then back up to his face.

Her pupils are still dark with desire, her lip caught between her teeth.

She might want him just as much as he wants her.

A grin quirks at the corner of her mouth. "So, how about we skip coffee today and go straight to my place?"

He nods, without hesitation, too quickly, and she laughs. But then she's reaching back and tangling her fingers through his and dragging him off so they can catch a cab as soon as possible.

And _she's_ the one that starts the makeout session in the backseat.

* * *

 **As always, a huge thank you goes out to Lindsey for all her help.**


	18. Chapter 18

**Prana**

* * *

His eyes pop open as soon as Miss Nichols, her voice soft as a whisper, announces that class is done. His fingers curl tight around his thighs, and his gaze slides to Kate, whose eyes are just fluttering open. Her chest heaves with a deep breath, her shoulders sagging at the loss of tension from the meditation session.

It's an odd sight, like nothing he's ever seen. Usually, she's one of the first ones with eyes open and mind focused when class ends. She's never been an expert in meditation, and neither has he.

So this whole her slowly coming out of it like she was in some semblance of a trance is…odd.

Then again, she's been odd all week.

After him being distant and dejected last week, the last thing he had expected was to get the responses he did upon texting her. After spending a night in her bed, sleeping with her in his arms, his chest pressed against her back, he had figured they would be less…distant.

But when he had texted her over the weekend, all he had gotten were one-word replies, a simple yes or no most of the time.

It had sent his heart sinking, his mind whispering his insecurities back at him, telling him that she had probably figured out that she deserved so much better than _him_ after all. That is, until he stared at a news article and his phone vibrated with another one of her one-word responses.

 _Yes._

It had explained everything, and had him expecting to see her getting to yoga class with tense shoulders and a spark of fear in her eyes, her lips twisted into a frown he would have tried his best to wipe away.

But that's not what happened.

Because apparently _odd_ is a continuing trend.

Because when she showed up at class today, her lips had been curled into a small smile, and an elastic had been wrapped around her yoga mat, and she took his hand, squeezed it gently, and whispered her greeting. She had seemed…happy, almost peaceful, despite the faint undertone of fear he could spot in the green of her eyes.

And she's still catching him off guard.

He watches as she stands, finding himself copying her movements. She slips on her shoes, tying up the laces tightly, and rolls up her mat. His is already wedged under his arm when she slips the elastic around hers and turns to face him, offering him another shy smile.

She doesn't say a word. He follows her anyway.

Like always, he finds his place on one side of the elevator while she hits the button for the ground floor. She doesn't hit the button to close the doors this time, but turns to him before they slide shut. She's still smiling, and her eyes are shining with what looks like appreciation.

For what…he has no idea.

"So, what do you say we have coffee at my place today?" she asks, and he quirks an eyebrow. It draws a laugh from her chest. "Not for _that,_ " she says. "I just…I want to tell you about the case and I don't think it's one we should really be talking about in public, considering how…public the case already is."

He nods, fighting against the furrow of his brows.

She nods back at him, still smiling, and turns away without saying another word.

* * *

She takes his yoga mat from him the moment they walk through the door, and leans both of them against the wall. He toes off his shoes as she does the same, and then she's reaching back to take his hand and lead him to the couch.

He's been here before. They ordered Chinese food and watched a movie last week, her knees pressed against his thigh and his t-shirt draped over her body.

This time is different. She sits down, and drags him onto the cushion next to her, and then her arms are wrapping around his neck, her head landing on his chest. His arms snake around her waist, pulling her closer, his nose pressing against her temple.

This is what he expected. This need for support, the weight of a hard case still heavy on her shoulders.

He dusts a kiss to the side of her head. "You okay?" he breathes.

She nods, turning so her ear is pressed to the spot over his heart. "Yeah."

"Tough case?" he asks, tightening his grip on her, pressing a second kiss to the top of her head.

This is new, the intimacy, the press of her body against his without the promise for sex, or the implication heavy in the air. It's new. And it feels so unbelievably right that his heart is stuttering and he's hoping she can't hear it.

"Yeah," she repeats. "The kind that you never expect to catch in your career, even living here, and when you do it's just…it catches you off guard."

And then she's pulling away, her hands curling around his shoulders and squeezing gently as she draws her head back. His hands slide from her back to her sides, over the cotton of her shirt. His thumbs trace the skin just below her ribcage.

"Do you want to…talk about it?" he asks, keeping his voice soft, quiet.

"That's why I invited you here, isn't it?" she responds, a whisper. She squeezes his shoulders and leans back, and he watches as she sinks into the couch cushions, drawing her legs up next to her.

He waits until he's sure she's comfortable to do the same. "Well, anything you want to tell me, I'm here to listen," he promises, his hand curling into a fist at his side to keep him from reaching for her, from pushing her for more than she's willing to offer.

But she offers him a smile, her head landing to rest in the palm of her hand. "It's just…it was really hard, Castle," she breathes. "You can't even imagine. Nobody can, until you've seen that much…destruction and death."

Her face twists, her lips into a frown and her eyes in disgust, only to fall closed. He really can't imagine. He saw the pictures in the paper, blurry and in black and white, but she saw the victims, studied the story and probably the blast, too.

Part of him wishes he could take that memory for her.

"Every time I went down to the morgue, there were so many bodies, and they were all just…dead and burned and scarred," she whispers. "Even Lanie, the, uh, medical examiner working the case was shaken…and she's seen a lot more than I have."

He nods. "That makes sense," he breathes. "I…like you said, I can't even imagine."

Her face darkens again, and her gaze falls, her eyes landing on the crack between the cushions they're sitting on. He reaches for her hand, unable to stop himself this time, and squeezes her fingers. It's only the pain he can just barely see in her eyes that keeps him from reaching over and wrapping his arms around her again.

If there's something she needs to say, he'll sit here and listen. And if she needs silence and space, he can give her that, too.

After a few seconds, she looks back up at him, tears brimming her eyes. This time, he reaches over, swipes the moisture from her face, and she sinks into his touch. His thumb traces the ridge of her cheekbone, fingers drifting over the sharp angle of her jaw.

"There was this one guy that we interrogated, well, that _I_ interrogated, and he was saying that he didn't remember what happened because it was a traumatic moment," she whispers, and then her jaw clenches beneath his palm. Her eyes flutter closed, and a tear rolls down her cheek. "You know what I told him?" she whispers.

He shakes his head, swiping the tear from her cheek. "What?" he asks, his voice so low that he barely hears himself.

Her eyes open again, the green so bright and yet so filled with pain. "I told him the truth, that I was shot in the chest and I remember every second of it," she answers.

And his heart stutters, and breaks for her, the memory of articles detailing her shooting popping back into his mind. The memory of that picture of her lying on the ground, alone, facing the possibility of her own death with a bullet lodged in her chest.

He can't imagine that, can't even try to imagine the burning cut of the bullet and the hysteria that surely followed. He can't even bring himself to picture the blood draining out of her, the life fading from her eyes, from her body as she fell unconscious from the blood loss.

The most detailed articles said she flatlined. And her… _dead_...is the last thing he wants to picture.

Besides maybe her staring at him the way she is now, like the memory is haunting her, still hurting her so many months later. He wishes he could do something to wipe that pain away.

"But we caught the guy," she adds, and he blinks against the emotion fogging his own mind, his own vision, to catch the glint of satisfaction in her eyes. "We caught the person that caused so much pain to so many people and that's…great."

"It's extraordinary," he says, nodding his head in agreement.

She's extraordinary, but he bites his tongue instead of saying that.

Besides, she's smiling now, her face still cradled in his palm, she reaches up and tangles her fingers with his, drawing their hands down to her lap, and they rest on her thigh.

"You know what else is…hard, but kind of great about cases like these?" she asks.

He shakes his head. "What?"

Her smile widens. "They put everything into perspective," she says. "It makes you think about the things you really don't want to put off anymore."

Her gaze falls to his mouth, and she squeezes his hand once again. And she's leaning forward to press her lips against his.

It's…different.

It's slow and sweet, her lips parting his ever so gently, so slowly. His eyes flutter closed, his free hand coming up to cradle her jaw, to draw her closer. Her fingers stay tangled with his, her thumb drifting across his knuckles, her lips parting over his mouth. Her tongue slides against his, slow and careful, so different from every other kiss they've shared.

This isn't about sex. This is quiet, and slow and _loving_.

It's everything he doesn't want to put off any longer, either.

She pulls away just as slowly as she leaned in, and his eyes flutter open to find hers still closed. Her lips are curled upwards into a small smile. He watches as her eyes open, and the flecks of gold he loves so much shine bright in the green of her irises.

She looks at him like she loves him.

And then she looks…so very scared.

She tugs her hand from his grasp, and her other hand, curled around the fabric of his shoulder, pushes him away. His heart sinks as her gaze falls, her lip getting caught between her teeth.

Her shoulders are tense now, and if he could he would wash away the fear that creases her features, replace it with the joy and the…love that shone so very bright just seconds ago.

But he can't. He's pretty sure he put the apprehension and the fear there.

He knows there's nothing he can do to help.

So when she forces her gaze back to his, and her voice quivers around a whisper, he can do nothing but nod.

"You know what," she says, "it was a really hard case, and I think I just need to be alone right now, okay?"

And he stands, his hands fisting around the fabric of his pants. He doesn't ask for more, doesn't bother asking for an explanation. He steps towards the door, reaching down to pick up his yoga mat, and sneaks one last glance at her before he leaves.

She's curled up on the couch, her knees drawn up to her chest, her arm wrapped around her legs. She still looks, terrified, and hurt, her gaze locked on him.

And he did that to her. There's nothing he can do to help.

So he leaves, tries to focus on the look in her eyes when she first pulled back from the kiss, the beauty of happiness shining in her irises.

She looked at him she like she loved him.

And his heart is pounding in his chest, aching for her, in a way that tells him he definitely loves her.

* * *

 **I am sooo sorry for the delay in posting this chapter. I have seriously had it ready for like a week and just kept forgetting to post until it seemed too late to do so. So, yeah, I'm sorry for that. Hope it was worth the wait. Also, as always, a huge thank you goes out to Lindsey for her help.**


	19. Chapter 19

**Prana**

* * *

He almost didn't expect her to show up, which is stupid because besides the week with the sniper that triggered her PTSD, she hasn't missed a class. But still, when she shows up, it's with shy eyes locked on the wooden floor, fingers curled tightly around the plastic of her yoga mat.

He can't help but notice the high neckline of her t-shirt, covering her clavicles once again, and his stomach sinks.

It feels like a huge step back for her, and he wishes he could help her with whatever she needs space for. But the weight in his gut, the flood of nerves in his stomach at just the sight of her, is still insisting that the problem is _him_.

Swallowing back a sigh, he turns away from her, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows instead, out at the city surrounding them.

She still takes her usual place next to him, but doesn't say a word in greeting, or in explanation, as she sets her mat on the ground and kicks at it to make it unroll. He knows her well enough to notice the pink tint to her cheeks, just barely visible in his peripheral when she stands back up, and wastes time adjusting her ponytail.

The silence in unnerving, nauseating.

And it's not that they haven't spoken over the last week. He'd texted her a few times to make sure she was okay, and had gotten longer replies than he was expecting, promises that she was okay, followed by asking him not to blame himself for her shutting down.

He tried not to. He's still trying. But when her eyes just barely catch his and his heart skips a beat, he finds it really, really hard not to.

And so he keeps staring out the window, at the shiny plane of the building next to this one, ignoring the fact that he can also see her head, the high ponytail and the flutter of her lashes. She keeps sneaking glances at him, her eyes wide, vulnerable.

It takes everything in him to _not_ reach out for her, to _not_ take her hand in his, to _not_ catch the enticing lock of her gaze.

And he finds himself swallowing back a sigh of relief when Miss Nichols' voice fills the room, catching the attention of talking students and those doing stretches. His head turns to find the front of the class, his eyes landing on Miss Nichols' as she takes her place on her own yoga mat.

But just as she begins class, he feels fingers curl around his own, and turns, on instinct, to find Kate staring at him. Her grip on his hand tightens, and her teeth catch her lower lip until the skin there turns white.

"Castle?" she whispers, quietly enough to not be heard in the near silence of the classroom.

He nods, telling her to continue without saying a word.

"Can we get coffee after class?" she asks, her voice quivering with nerves, her grip on his hand tightening even more.

And his heart thuds.

She's the one that asked for space, and he's tried his best to give her that. If she wants to go out for coffee, he can give her that, too.

And so he does the one thing he can manage, offering her the slightest of nods, and watching as her shoulders sag in relief.

* * *

It makes him jump when her free hand slides into his, and she twines their fingers, holding him close. He fights the urge to turn to look at her, to ask what the hell is going on since she pushed him away last week, and instead stares at their distorted reflection in the elevator doors.

They look no different than they did last week, or the week before, spare for the distance between them and the tentativeness of her touch.

It still sends his heart racing, soaring, just like it always has.

He adjusts his mat under his arm when the elevator slides to a stop, and the doors open in front of them. She doesn't let go of his hand, and doesn't sneak a glance at him when she leads him into the building's lobby. He stares at the back of her head until they step past the building's glass doors, and he falls into step at her side.

She still doesn't say a word, and considering the fact that the warmth of her hand in his is so much more than he expected, he doesn't risk it, either.

Still, the silence is thick and eery and he hates that neither of them say a word until they're situated at their usual table, and Kate has ordered for them both. His hand is still caught in hers, sitting over the table now. To anyone who knows them, it probably doesn't look different from any other day.

The pained look in her eyes when she looks back at him, though, makes his heart sink with the realization that it really, really is different.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I know that, after last week, this is probably the last thing you wanted."

He wants to tell her that this is everything he could have wanted, more than he had let himself hope for, that all he wants is her. But the words stay trapped in his chest, heavy and constricting and forcing him to manage a slow, uncertain shake of his head.

"It's not," he says, because it's all he can say.

It's the only thing that doesn't break the rules, the only thing that won't send her running again.

But it does have her swallowing, so forced he can see the tight clench of her jaw, and can feel the way her fingers grip his. "Still, I'm sorry," she whispers. It's so quiet he can barely hear it. "I didn't mean for that…last week, or for today, really. I didn't want to hurt you."

He swallows back the question begging to be asked, the _why did you do it, then?_ Because she sounds so heartbroken, so pained by the knowledge that she hurt him and he…he loves her too much to hurt her any more.

So he squeezes her hand, tightening his grip on her fingers until it rivals her own, and offers her a smile that he hopes is reassuring but feels broken. She mirrors it, crooked and shy, her eyes locking on his. He wishes he knew how to make the pain in them disappear.

He wishes there wasn't a weight in his chest telling him he put it there, that this…relationship put it there. That she's in pain because of him and there's nothing he can do to change that.

She squeezes his hand once more, and leans back, drawing her fingers from within his grasp as her back hits her chair. He leans back, too, if only to put the distance between them that she seems to want.

And she doesn't say another word until after the waitress delivers their coffees to the table, and he distracts himself from the silence with the first sip of his cappuccino.

* * *

It's the most awkward coffee date they've ever had, since that very first time they slid into their seats at this table and each ordered a drink. The silence is heavy, weighing on his shoulders like the memory of walking out the door last week, of the fear that had shone in her eyes before he left.

They sit across from each other, staring out the window at the pedestrian traffic, and the cars when they have no other choice, only sneaking glances at each other when they think the other isn't looking. He can feel her gaze on the side of his head too often, the burn of words unspoken in his throat, in her gaze. He imagines she feels the same thing when he turns to glance at her, and she freezes, staring out the window, unmoving.

That is, until her cup is empty and so is his and he sets it down on the table, turning back towards her only to catch her gaze locked on him.

Her eyes go wide, almost scared. Always scared.

And her lips part around what he figures is the first thing that comes to mind, because her cheeks turn beet red the moment the words are out of her mouth. "I went on a date last night."

It's like a slap in the face, and any response he might have had gets trapped in his throat as his breath catches and his stomach sinks. His fingers curl tight around his thighs, to keep him from clenching them into fists, because he's not supposed to be angry.

He's not allowed to be angry. She was never his…anything, really, besides his friend. Officially, they were never anything more, despite the nights spent sharing a bed, and sharing takeout, and the weeks spent texting back and forth in feeble attempts to reach out to each other.

They were never anything more. She's allowed to _date._

And yet she looks just as torn up about it as he does, and she's reaching for him, even though his hands are hidden under the table. Her hand stays open on the tabletop, her fingers open for his, her palm empty.

"It's not like that, Castle," she whispers, sounding more upset than defensive and something about it makes his chest loosen. "It was…he helped us with our case, and he and I flirted a bit, and then he asked me out for drinks and I…said yes."

He wants to ask _why_ again. Everything is a question of _why._ But she doesn't…she never owes him an explanation.

So he asks something he can ask, something a friend would ask, since he knows, at the very least, they still seem to be that. "Did you have a good time?"

All he gets in response is a shrug of one shoulder, and the twitch of her fingers.

He gives in, lifting his palm from his thigh to wrap his hand around hers, to feel the warmth of her fingers as they slide into the gaps between his. Her shoulders sag in relief, her breath escaping her in a quiet sigh that has his heart lifting.

This doesn't feel like friends. This feels like…a broken relationship, like they're trying to fix…whatever went wrong.

And he'll take this over the alternative.

"So," he breathes, "do you see it going anywhere with this guy? Is there a second date on the horizon?"

She chuckles, but it sounds forced, and shakes her head. "Considering he flew back to England this morning," she says, "definitely not."

He swallows at the info, nodding his head slowly, and she squeezes his hand as though trying to comfort him. He tightens his grip on her fingers in response, the actually, completely instinctual, brings a small smile to her face that he could never regret.

The kind he wishes her could see every day, even though he's not supposed to wish for stuff like that.

There are a lot of things he's not supposed to do, and yet there's a question bubbling up his throat, threatening to escape. A search for reassurance she shouldn't need to offer him, that he never needed a few years ago, before killing Derrick, before the rejections. Before falling for someone has beautiful and strong as so evidently out of his league as Kate is.

The reassurance he shouldn't need, but asks for anyway.

"Is that the only reason it wouldn't last?"

Her eyes flutter closed, and open again, the green of her irises swirling with pain once again. Slowly, carefully, she draws her hand from his, curling her fingers into her palm. His heart sinks as he watches her lean down and swipe her yoga mat off the floor, and set the cup at the center of the table to be picked up by the waitress later.

He half expects her to run. She looks like she's going to run.

But rather than heading straight for the door, she pauses next to him, and reaches out with her free hand. Her fingertips drift across his cheek, her eyes staying locked on his. Her touch is feather-light over his jaw as she leans in and presses a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Her gaze stays locked on his when she pulls away. "No," she whispers. "It's definitely not the only reason."

And then she's walking away, and he watches as the door swings open, then closed again, his heart pounding, racing in his chest.

And if he wasn't sure he loved her when he left her apartment last week…now, he knows.

* * *

 **As always, a huge thank you goes to Lindsey for all her help.**


	20. Chapter 20

**Prana**

* * *

She's already there when he arrives. Not in class, standing on her mat and passing time by stretching and staring out the window, but leaning against one of the walls in the building's lobby, her arms crossed over her chest and a duffel bag at her feet. She's wearing a pair of sky high heels instead of her usual running shoes, and skin tight pants that cling to her hips along with a grey, faded NYPD shirt that puts her job on display.

A smile draws at her cheeks, as beautiful as ever, and he feels the corners of his mouth turn upwards as he watches her lean over to press the button to call the elevator. She turns towards the metal doors as he finds his spot next to her, their arms brushing as she leans towards him ever so slightly.

It sends his heart racing, soaring.

"You're here early," he says.

She shrugs, her shoulder shifting against his. "I got out of work late, so I didn't have time to run home before class. I decided to wait for you," she says, and her cheeks flush pink at her words. Her gaze slides to meet his, her lip quirking upwards. "I wanted to see you."

"Oh?"

It escapes as a breath before he can stop it, but where he would expect the tightening of her shoulders and the clench of her jaw, he gets a smile, shy and guarded but beautiful all the same.

"Yeah," she whispers. "I was hoping we could talk after class."

He smiles back at her, tries to mirror the discrete joy in the upturn of her lips and the crinkle at the corners of her eyes, even as the happiness seems to flood his chest. And if not for the hesitance between them, the pink stain of her cheeks telling him to maintain the line drawn between them, he would reach out to take her hand in his.

Instead, he turns away from her and stares at their reflection in the reflective metal doors.

"So, coffee?" he asks, his gaze meeting hers in their reflection, catching the slight shake of her head. "Or somewhere else?"

She nods at that, slight and slow. "Just…for the change of scenery," she whispers. "I think we need it after last week."

 _I went on a date last night._

Yeah, he could go for a change of scenery, too.

"Okay," he says. "That sounds great."

She turns back towards him at that, smiles so slightly that if not for the weeks of being her friend, he probably wouldn't notice. Her cheeks are still pink, her eyes alight with gratefulness that he wants to tell her is unnecessary, but loves all the same because it makes the flecks of gold in her eyes shine bright.

"Okay," she breathes.

And then she turns away, her eyes locking on the closed doors in front of her, her smile still gracing her lips, visible as he stares at her reflection. And then the doors slide open, and she steps off the lift without a word, him following behind with brows furrowed and hope blooming in his chest.

* * *

She's the one who takes his hand when they step off the elevator after class, her touch tentative, but her grasp on his fingers strong as she leads him from the building. He falls into step next to her, his shoulder brushing against hers as they pass through pedestrian traffic, as she holds him close with just the wrap of her fingers around his.

The walk is long, and she doesn't say a word the entire way.

But they find themselves in a park, and she leads him across the grass to sit on the swings, her hand slipping from his. She sets her bag on the ground, and digs her heels into the sand at her feet. With a tilt of her head, she motions to the swing next to her.

"Sit with me?" she whispers.

He nods, and curls his hand around the chain as he sets his mat on the grass and drops to sit next to her. He stares at her, offering her a smile until she looks away, her gaze landing on the expanse of grass surrounding them. The questions well in his chest, threatening to bubble up, and he digs his heels into the ground to sway himself backwards, to distract himself.

He stares at the grass, too, finds himself appreciating the change of scenery more with every sway of his swing, with the quiet clink of the chains. His gaze slides back to her, catching the slight gleam in her eyes, the tight press of her lips. He can all but see the gears turning in her head, the words caught in her chest.

"You okay?" he asks.

Her shoulders go tense, then loosen as she turns to face him. She frowns, her gaze falling. "Yeah," she whispers.

He nods, his grip on the chain tightening.

She looks back up at him after a second. "When my mom was killed…something inside me changed," she says, her voice low, shaky as she speaks into the breeze that swirls through the park. "It's like I built up this wall inside. I don't know, I guess I just didn't want to hurt like that again."

He swallows, can do nothing else with his mind going blank and her staring at him like there's some hidden message behind her words, an implication he's too scared to decipher. And he nods.

"I'm not going to be able to be the kind of person that I want to be until that wall comes down," she continues. "I'm not…that person yet. I'm trying…but with my PTSD, and my…the way I run when I'm scared…I'm not there yet."

He lets his gaze fall from, and looks back up at her to find her still staring back at him.

Almost every week since they've met, he's seen the same thing, the light, the joy, the pride…the love, spare for the odd time he saw fear or panic…everything else. But today, staring back at her, he sees the exact thing he used to see when he looked in the mirror, the very thing she made fade from his reflection more and more with every passing week.

Insecurity.

His heart races with the need to return the favor, to wipe the self-doubt from the eyes of the most remarkable, extraordinary woman that he's ever met.

And he says the first thing that comes to mind.

"You know what I thought when I first met you?"

She huffs out a laugh, her eyes falling to the space between them. He watches her hand tighten around the chain so the blood drains from her knuckles. "That you'd seen me in the papers before? That I looked an awful lot like that cop that had been shot in the chest and lived?"

He laughs with her, even as his chest tightens at the reminder of everything she's been through, everything she survived. That despite it all, she still doesn't see what he sees.

She can't see past the wall in her own reflection.

"Well, yeah," he answers. "But also that…you were a mystery I was never going to solve."

Her brows furrow, and she rests her head against her hand, against the metal links of the chain at her temple. Her heels dig into the sand again, and the slight swaying of her swing comes to a stop, her gaze still locked on his.

"Even now," he continues, his voice falling, his words swept away by the wind that still carries hers and the insecurity that had tainted them, "after spending all this time with you, I…I'm still amazed by the depths of your strength, your heart," he pauses, lets his eyes drift down the length of her body only to land on hers again, "and your hotness."

She laughs at that, her head dipping, her cheeks flushing pink. "You're not so bad yourself, Castle," she says. Her gaze flicks back up to meet his, her breath escaping her on a sigh. "You're…better, actually." Her lips press together, twisting into a frown. "You shouldn't be amazed by somebody like me."

He smiles, forces it against the sinking of his heart at the flicker of doubt in her eyes. "Oh, you're right," he says, keeping his tone light, teasing as the corners of her eyes crinkle with joy. "A man with a failing writing career like me should not be amazed by the most beautiful of New York's finest."

It draws an eye roll from her, a deep, audible inhale. "I'm not talking about…that," she whispers. Her eyes grow dark, her face falling. "I hurt you, Castle. I slept with you and left the next morning. I…ran away from you, asked for space and then went out with someone else."

His jaw clenches as he swallows against the well of emotion in his chest.

And she's silent for a moment, before blinking and speaking again. "I figured out why I went out with Colin," she says.

"Why?"

She shrugs. "He couldn't hurt me," she says. "I didn't care about him, and he was leaving the next morning. Letting him in for a night, for a few hours…it didn't scare me because there's nothing he could do, and nothing that could happen to him, that would…hurt me."

His heart drops. "But I can?" he asks.

"Not like that," she answer, instant, her voice sure, her gaze steady, locked on his. "You…I care about you, a lot, Rick." Her grip on the chain tightens even more, her wrist twisting, nerves making her fidget. "And that's scary, because that means that…losing you–"

"You won't lose me, Kate."

She sighs, shaking her head ever so slightly. Her gaze falls from his, her hand falling from the chain to curl around her knee instead, as does her other hand. He watches as she digs her heels even deeper into the sand, squeezes her eyes shut only to open them again. She keeps staring at the blades of grass. He keeps staring at her.

"Because of that wall, Rick, I won't be able to have the kind of relationship that I want, either," she whispers. And she turns to face him again, fear shining bright in her eyes, along with the insecurity that still swirls in the depths of her green irises. Like she's scared that this is what will make her lose him.

Like she thinks that anything could scare him away now.

"I'm trying to get better," she whispers. "To knock down that wall. I've been trying, but the idea of it being gone is…terrifying." She swallows, the corner of her mouth curling upwards just enough to make the race of his heart slow, the pressure in his chest dissipate. "But I need it to be gone. Because that relationship I want…I want it with you, Rick."

His breath escapes him on a stutter, his eyes widening to mirror hers, to reflect the shock, the apprehension, the fear, the love shining in the green of her irises and the black of her pupils.

"If you'll…"

 _Wait._

And the insecurity shines bright in her eyes, a reminder of everything she's done for him. Of the fact that she's allowed him to look at himself without the overwhelming sensation of self-doubt flooding his chest and gleaming in the gaze of his reflection.

He stands slowly, drawing himself to his feet with the chains of his swing. She regards him with furrowed brows as he holds a hand out to her, and draws her to her feet as soon as her fingers wrap around his. He snakes his arms around her waist while hers loop around his next, her head falling to rest against his chest as his lips land on her temple.

Her grip on his is tight. His is tighter.

"I'll be here," he says, "waiting for that wall to fall so we can have that relationship you want."

She doesn't answer, spare for the breath she releases against his chest, the tightening of her arms around his neck. And he holds her until she pulls away, peppering kisses to the crown of her head until she presses one to his chest and puts inches of space between them.

"I should go," she whispers.

"I'll see you next week?"

She nods, her lips curling into a smile as she turns back towards the path they took. She only turns back towards him when he calls after her, words he would have held back last week spilling from his lips and drawing a smile to her face.

"And Kate? I'm _always_ going to be amazed by you."

* * *

 **I am _so_ sorry for the delay in posting this chapter. I've been really busy with school—oh, wait, we're all friends here, right?—aka spending _way_ too much time on YouTube. But I'm back, and I hope this was worth the wait. And, as always, a huge thank you goes to Lindsey for all her help.**


	21. Chapter 21

**Prana**

* * *

It's his phone vibrating on his desk that has him shoving his laptop off his thighs and reaching for the device. Her name lights up his screen, along with a simple message— _Hey_ , is all it reads—that draws a smile to his face for the most simple, almost juvenile reason.

She was thinking of him.

He types out his reply. _Hey._ And then his thumb drifts across his screen to type more, to ask a question, spark a conversation. _Close the case?_

Her response comes almost instantly. _Yes_ , it reads. And he watches as the three dots that indicate that she's typing appear, fading and darkening in a rhythm that has him drawing his feet from his desk and his teeth seeking out his lower lip. But then they fade, and no message comes, the text screen still lingering with the final message she sent.

His thumb lingers over his screen, his mind searching for something to write that will keep this conversation from ending before it even begins, but before he can tap the keyboard, his phone vibrates in his palm. Her face lights up the screen, her smile sweet in the picture he took of her right before they parted ways at the cafe one day. It draws a smile to his face as he answers the call.

"Texting not enough for you?" he says, to hear a puff of laughter from the other end of the call.

But her answer is serious, quiet and almost inaudible, but there all the same. "No." It's all she says, but she doesn't have to say anymore to send his heart soaring, to have his breath stuttering.

She's been more…open…since the day on the swings, since she opened up about her walls and promised that she was working for the relationship they both want. His phone buzzes with her text messages every night. Her smile at yoga class yesterday had mirrored his own, and still shines bright in his memory. Her voice rings soft in his ear when typing isn't enough and she needs this, needs to know what she's fighting for. When he can remind her.

And he can still feel her arms around him, phantom but lingering in his memory, from when they said goodbye yesterday evening.

"Oh," he says, a whisper, a breath. And a pause weighs heavy between them, honesty thick in the air. He can practically see the way she nibbles at her lip when she's nervous, when she doesn't know what to say. "So, uh, any plans to celebrate that New York's finest has put another killer behind bars?"

Her laughter rings quiet, another huff, yet another breath that's just barely audible over the phone. "I took a bath," she says, leaving him to force the image of her, naked and wet and _beautiful,_ from his mind. "And then I was just going to watch whatever's on TV before going to bed." She pauses, and he hears her shifting, probably to sit more comfortably. "How about you? Any plans for tonight?"

"Well, I was writing," he tells her, "but since you interrupted me, I'm probably going to put on a movie." And his mind screams it before he mutters the words, without thought, without hesitance, even though he knows there probably should be some. "Would you like to join me?"

She hesitates, a pause lingering for too long, making his heart race, or sink, or patter. He's not even sure. But then her answer comes over the phone and sends it soaring once again, relief stealing his breath and loosening his grip on the device in his hand.

"I'll be right over."

* * *

He straightens his shirt and adjusts the throw pillows on the couch right after she knocks on the door, and then walks over to welcome her. She's smiling when the door swings open, sweet and shy, her purse slung over one shoulder even though it won't be needed. Leggings cling to her hips, down to her ankles, and a grey t-shirt hangs over her shoulders. The very tips of her hair are still damp from the bath she told him about.

"So," she says, "what movie are we watching?"

He shrugs. "Well, since you told me to surprise you, I figured we could go for funny with a hint of horror," he tells her. "So, _Shaun of the Dead_?"

The laugh bursts free from her throat just as he closes the door behind her, as she's toeing off her sneakers and stepping into his home. "A zombie movie?" she asks. "Really?"

His brow pinches. "What?"

She pushes her shoes aside right before turning to face him, her eyes wide, her smile widened, lifting the corners of her mouth. "Nothing," she says. "It's just that the case I _just_ closed involved…zombies." She shrugs.

" _Really_?"

It bursts free from his throat, too loud, too blatant in the excitement that's suddenly coursing through his veins, sending his heart stuttering and his mind racing with ideas. What her case could have been, how she solved it, whether or not there was a part of her that wished, like he is now, that it involved real zombies.

But she's rolling her eyes at him, crossing her arms over her chest as she steps backwards, deeper into his loft. The corner of her mouth is still pulled upwards with a smile. "It was a murder case, Castle," she says. "Don't sound so excited."

"Sorry," he responds, instinct drawing the words from him. And then thoughtless speaking, one of his greatest flaws, pulls out the rest. "But you would be really _hot_ as a zombie slayer."

Her cheeks turn red, her eyes falling to trace the planks of hardwood making up his floor as her hand tugs at the hem of her shirt. As she leaves him standing there, heart seeming to be still in his chest, his teeth catching the tip of his tongue.

They've been open, flirty, honest. But they haven't done… _that._ Haven't acknowledged the line they've already crossed, the night she spent in his bed, the evening he spent in hers. Of drifting hands and the hot presses of lips and the moans that echoed of the walls.

Of the spark that lingers between them, brighter now than ever before.

 _That,_ they haven't mentioned since the swings.

And he half expects her to run now, to leave because he did mention it, because he might be pounding too hard on the walls that still stand around her, that keep the distance between them even though it's the last thing he wants.

The flame he sees in her when she looks back up, though, tells him space might be the last thing she wants, too.

She smiles again, the quirk of her lip a little forced, a little strained this time, but there all the same. "Knowing you, you probably have a surplus of snacks ready, too?" she says.

So they're ignoring what's happened, his comment, the fact that her eyes dance over his body, his chest, his hips, as she speaks. But she's still here, and staying for the movie and that's enough to make him smile back at her and nod his head.

"Of course," he says, and he leads her to the living room, waving his arms to show her the assortment of popcorn and chips and candy laid out on the coffee table. The TV screen is paused on one of the first frames of the movie, ready for their little impromptu movie night. He'd tossed a woolen blanket on one end of the couch, draped it over the armrest, right after he'd prepared the snacks. He takes the other end of the couch, leaves the blanket for her.

She drapes it over her sock-clad feet and legs, her one arm curling around the throw pillow as she reaches for the bowl of M&Ms with the other, grabbing a handful of the chocolate candies and popping a few of them into her mouth.

"Ready?" he asks.

She nods, her eyes bright as they drift from him to the TV screen. And he hits play.

* * *

He's not sure when it happens, how she inched her way across the couch without him noticing until he reached forward for popcorn and leaned back to wrap his arm around her shoulder without thought. And now her head is on his shoulder, her hand lingering on his thigh, the length of her body pressed against his and the movie drowned out because all he can hear is the sound of her laughter, the soft sounds that slip from her throat as she watches.

The movie comes to an end and the credits roll and she shifts against him, but doesn't pull away. Her gaze flicks up to his, her eyes bright.

And there's no space. It doesn't feel like there's any walls between them now, but he knows they're still there, disguised by the same thing that has the flecks of gold in her eyes shining bright.

"That movie always makes me laugh," she whispers. "It was a good choice."

"Yeah?" he says, the breath doubling as a question.

She nods, her chin pressing against the jut of his shoulder, her hand tightening around the muscle of his thigh. Her gaze flicks downwards, to his lips, her tongue poking out to trace the seam of her own. Her chin presses harder against his arm, her eyes falling closed.

"I wish the walls weren't there," she whispers. "I wish I knew what I could do to knock them down, so we could…"

He squeezes her shoulder, leaning down to dust a kiss to her head. She doesn't pull away, doesn't stiffen, doesn't move.

"You'll get there," he promises, fighting the waver of uncertainty that finds his voice. His lips press against her head once again, sealing the promise there.

She still doesn't shift, doesn't respond. His heart stutters with the hope that she believes him, that he believes himself, that this will all come to a happy ending, one where she's in his arms and those walls that still stand are knocked down.

And she stays still, so he does too. His arm remains around her, her hand still clenched at his thigh. The popcorn bowls sit empty on the table in front of them, the TV screen gone black, the loft quiet spare for the sound of their breathing.

He should probably let her go, wish her well and leave a promise to see each other again soon in the silence. But he can't push her to leave, can't do anything that would result in their time together ending sooner than it otherwise would.

But it only takes a few minutes for her to be tapping his thigh and pulling away, her hair covering her face like a curtain as she puts a few inches of space between them.

"I have to work tomorrow," she says. "So I should…get going, get some sleep."

He nods. "Of course."

Her responding smile is small, slight, hesitant. "I, uh, I'm free Saturday evening, if you want to do this again?" she whispers, her eyes shining with hope he'll never grow accustomed to seeing.

The same hope that boosted his self-esteem, has him willing to wait for her, trust her, despite the whisper in his head telling him not to. The one that tells him she wants this, wants _them_ just as much as he does.

"I'd like that," he says. "But next time, you get to choose the movie."

She lets out a laugh, soft and sweet and it draws his smile wider.

"Okay," she agrees. And then her face falls serious, her eyes meeting his once again, and falling to his lips. He lets his gaze do the same, catching the subtle way her teeth draw at her lip.

And then she's leaning forward, but not for his mouth. Her lips press to his cheek, her hand gripping at his thigh. It's careful, soft and sweet.

The love that floods in his chest is tangible in her touch, in her kiss.

Her gaze catches his when she pulls away. "See you later, Castle," she whispers.

He nods. "Until then, Kate."

And she lifts from the couch, her touch fading, leaving his heart racing. He watches as she walks to the door, slips on her shoes and opens the door, and waves back at her right before she leaves. The sound of the door closing echos through the loft, through his mind.

He takes a moment before standing up and cleaning, his mind stuck on the touch of her hand and the press of her lips, and what might happen on Saturday.

And when her walls will fall so the words welling in his chest can finally break free.

* * *

 **Once again, I apologize for the delay in posting this chapter. And, as always, a huge thank you goes to Lindsey for all her help.**


	22. Chapter 22

**Prana**

* * *

She's late.

And he hates the fact that it eats at him, has his stomach twisting with uncertainty and his eyes landing on the screen of his phone to check the time more often than usual. Traces of insecurity linger in the back of his mind as the minutes tick by, their planned time to meet up having passed about fifteen minutes ago.

He pushes that thought back, reaching forward to grab a handful of popcorn from one of the bowls sitting before him. It's the one coated in parmesan cheese seasoning, the one he noted was her favorite as she finished off the bowl the other day, long before the final credits had rolled.

The fact that she's late gnaws at him, but he gives himself a moment to imagine that her kiss would have tasted like this popcorn, had he been lucky enough to feel her lips against his once again. And he wouldn't have minded, not for her.

Not for the possibility of moving forward with her, of tearing her walls down brick by brick and helping her realize that she's already enough. That he doesn't want anything more than her, than the woman he falls for more and more every time he sees her, every time they speak.

The woman making his stomach twist with worry because she still hasn't shown up, even though it's twenty minutes past when he expected her to show up.

It only takes him a moment to realize that the worry is no longer that she rejected him, the voice in his head silenced by the memories of her smile as she sat next to him just last week. Now, his heart is racing out of fear for her, his writer's imagination running wild with reasons as to why she wouldn't show up without a word of explanation.

She could be dead.

He pushes that thought away with a shake of his head, his eyes falling closed against the fear that makes his heart pound. She can't be dead, not so suddenly, not now. Injured, maybe, or stuck at the precinct working a case, too distracted by work to let him know.

That's probably it. She's dedicated to her job, probably gets lost in an investigation the way he gets lost in a story, forgetting about plans and people until the killer is behind bars.

But his gaze still shifts to his phone, the big white numbers staring back at him, telling him it's now twenty-four minutes past seven.

He swipes his thumb across the screen to unlock his phone and opens his contacts, finding her name with ease, and the picture of her smile that never fails to make his lips curl upwards with joy. His thumb hovers above the screen, above the call button, hesitance catching him in his tracks.

He could call her, make sure everything is okay. But the last thing he wants is to make her feel guilty, or distract her from something important, or make her feel bad when she shouldn't.

Yeah, he shouldn't call her. At some point she'll notice the time, and let him know what happened, why she isn't here for their movie night.

But just as he's about to switch his phone off, the device starts vibrating in his hand, her face lighting up the entirety of the screen.

She's calling him.

He accepts the call without a second thought, bring his phone to his ear. A greeting curls at the tip of his tongue, a smile curling at his lips.

But she speaks before he can say a word.

"Rick?"

Her voice is shaking, laced with fear that has his grip on the phone tightening as though that can somehow protect her.

"Kate?" he breathes back, hearing the waver in his own voice as his stomach twists. He can hear the cars from the other side of the line, the fact that her breathing is quicker than usual, and the muffled voice of someone else talking to her, the words indistinguishable.

"Castle?" she says this time, and his part around a response, but she speaks first. "Castle, I'm so sorry I didn't make it tonight. I just…something came up and I…I'm sorry."

The pounding of his heart doesn't slow, his chest aching with anxiety at the distress in her tone, in her words, in her apology, as he presses his phone harder against his hear.

"You don't have to apologize, Kate," he says. "We'll just reschedule."

Her breath seems to escape her at that, and she murmurs, so quick, so quiet that he can't catch it over the incessant talking from whomever's with her and the loud racing of his heart. His teeth catch his lip, trap the question that wells in his throat, asking her what she said.

That's not what she needs right now.

He's not sure what she needs right now.

"You okay?" he asks, it comes out soft this time, so quiet the shaking of his own voice is almost inaudible, so the silence over the line seems to drag on for an impossibly long time. "Kate," he breathes, "are you okay?"

There's more silence, and a breath that sounds far too defeated for his taste, that makes his heart clench and his mind race with worst case scenarios once again.

"I hope so," she says.

He feels his heart crack just as her voice does the same.

"Castle?"

He nods, even though she can't see him, his eyes falling closed as he pushes himself from the couch, runs over to the front entrance.

"Yeah, Kate?"

She sniffles, and the sound from her end of the call tells him she's wiping at her face, wiping away her tears as his eyes burn with some of his own.

"I'm sorry," she breathes.

The line goes dead.

And he races out the door, phone still in hand, his breathing too quick because something's _wrong_ and he needs to find out what. He needs to make sure she's okay.

* * *

He gets to her precinct sooner than he expected, and shoves a handful of bills at the cab driver as he hops onto the sidewalk and rushes through the door. A few uniformed cops eye him as he rushes towards one, the question escaping him in a hurry, all bleeding together.

"Which floor is homicide?"

He barely processes the answer—five—as he continues his rush to the elevators, hits the button to call the lift. The doors slide open just soon enough, a ding echoing through the lobby as he steps on, pushes the button for the fifth floor and the one to close the doors.

When he gets there, the homicide floor is as chaotic is his mind.

There's a man. He assumes it's Ryan, remembers the times that Kate mentioned him and Esposito as her partners. He's rushing, too, but towards the elevators, his eyes wide, his badge and gun on his hip. And a woman he guesses is the captain, whose name he can't remember, because he's remembering every moment he should have told Kate he loves her but kept quiet, for her benefit, because of his own self-doubt.

"Excuse me, sir," says the man, but he catches Ryan's arm as he tries to brush past him, towards the elevator.

"Are you, uh, Ryan? Kate's—"

"What about Beckett?" asks the man, without denying a word. He assumes it means he's right. He also assumes that it means Kate is in danger, and that sends his mind spinning once again.

"She…she called me. She sounded panicked and I think," he pauses, sucks in a breath that does nothing to eliminate the racing of his mind, "she might be in danger."

It's the woman that steps towards him this time, her heels clicking against the tiled floors. "And who are you?" she asks, crossing her arms over her chest.

"I'm, uh, Richard Castle."

"And how do you know Detective Beckett?"

His breath catches in his chest, stutters on an exhale, his answer trapped because he's not her boyfriend, but not just her friend. He's more. He's…

"I'm the man that's in love with her," he breathes, prays it's enough to get him some kind of information about her, about the phone call. Anything they can offer.

Ryan catches him by the arm, turns him around. "Okay," he says. "Okay, if you care about her, you can ride with me, but we have to go."

He nods, his head bobbing without thought because all he cares about is that he can follow, that he can get answers.

Ryan calls the elevator, steps onto it and hits a button.

He stares at the reflective doors in front of them, at the panic shining in his reflection's eyes. The same panic that has his heart racing incessantly, bile rising in his throat.

"So, uh, what did Kate get herself into?"

Ryan turns to look at him, eyes wide. "That's for her to tell you," he says, "assuming she survives."

* * *

The building they stop at seems random, but Ryan seems sure as he hops out of the car and rushes for the door, the captain right on his heels, and a SWAT team behind her. He obeys the order to be the last into the building, accepts it because the only other option was to stay in the car and he _has_ to see her.

He has to know she's okay.

She has to be okay.

The cops rush up flights of stairs, the SWAT team separating, darting onto various floors to make sure whoever they're after isn't here. And looking for the other man Kate's mentioned a few times, Esposito.

It might make him a bad person, but he doesn't care about Esposito. Not right now. All he cares about is the echo of _clear_ filling the otherwise empty building, the reminder that if she's here they must be getting closer to her.

And then someone finds Esposito, yells about their success and it echoes down the hall, Ryan pausing on his race up the stairs to hear that his partner is alive, and that Kate is on the roof.

The SWAT team keeps separating, searching for whatever bad guy brought them here in the first place, but Ryan and the captain are quick, don't bother to pause at every floor, just racing to the top.

To Kate.

He follows them until they reach the roof, only a few members of the SWAT team lingering in front of him, between him and the roof. The door is wide open, people stepping into the light from the darkness of the abandoned building, leaving him trapped only to hear the soft sound of her voice.

She sounds far, the words quiet, drifting away on the wind, and his eyes fall closed.

She's probably screaming at the top of her lungs. Even from here, he can hear the desperate seeping into her every word.

" _Help!_ "

Over and over, catching the wind and playing on loop in his mind as the heavy footsteps of the SWAT team members thud across the roof, still not quite as loud as the pounding of his heart against his ribs. The ache in his chest spreads, his worry for her almost agonizing, her screaming voice destined to never fade from his memory if he never gets to see her again.

" _Help!_ "

He swallows back the lump in throat, sucks in a breath that should be steadying but only sends his head spinning even more.

And before he can stop himself, doubt himself, keep himself from acting out of fear that he'll find her dead instead of alive, he steps onto the roof, follows the sound of her voice, his eyes squeezed shut.

And he hopes that she won't die, that everything she worked for won't fall apart with her death.

That he won't be telling her ghost the words he so desperately needs her to hear.

* * *

 **Happy Mother's Day to all the mothers of the Castle fandom!**

 **Also, I would simply like to explain, since it seems that I've been unclear, that Kate went on a date with Colin Hunt, but they never slept together. Sorry for not expressing that fact more clearly, and thank you all for reading, and to Lindsey for all her help.**


	23. Chapter 23

**Prana**

* * *

The SWAT team disperses to make sure no one else is there. The clicking of the captain's heels gets swept away by the wind, only to get lost in the clouds. And Ryan runs across the building, following the sound of Kate's voice.

He lifts himself onto the roof as soon as SWAT deems it clear, his heart clenched with worry, clinging to the sound of Kate's words on the wind, ignoring the agonizing desperation in her tone, focusing instead on the reminder that she's still alive.

His footsteps are loud, his breathing heavy. He doesn't care, doesn't stop, as he races to catch up with Ryan.

To save Kate.

He sees her hand first, her white knuckles, her fingertips clutching at the edge of the roof. A need to survive keeping her strong. A fight for her life, ongoing and terrifying and dragging him to a halt, stealing his breath with a stuttering exhale.

Her fingers slip.

His hands go numb. His heart stops. And shatters.

And he watches without moving, without breathing, as Ryan leans over the edge, catches Kate's wrist and drags her back up. Saves her from the plunge, from her death, as the captain stares on with angry eyes. And his breath stays caught, stays lost, until she's helping Ryan pull her over the edge, and falling onto her hands and knees, onto the roof.

Her breathing is quick, labored. Her hair like a curtain around her head until she looks up. At him.

" _Castle_?"

It's a breath, nothing more. So quiet, so weak that it gets lost as soon as it reaches his ears. But it's enough to drag him to the ground with her, the cement scraping at his knees, his hands reaching for her.

She's shaking, weak or terrified or both, when his hands curl around her waist and bring her to him. Her chest hitches with each breath, her heart thundering as loud as his own, when his chest crushes against hers and his lips land on the soft strands of her hair.

"You're okay," he whispers, not sure if it's to reassure her or himself. "You're okay, Kate."

She squeezes his waist, presses her lips to his throat, mutters the same words she spoke over the phone, whimpers them into his skin. "I'm sorry."

And it has him shaking his head until his chin presses against her temple, has him pushing her away to his eyes can meet the glassy green of hers.

"Don't," he says, can't manage the rest when she's staring at him like that. When silent apologies and fatigue has her eyes hooded, but everything else, joy and appreciation and _love,_ is making them shine bright and golden and more beautiful than ever.

It sends his heart soaring, even as it keeps racing in his chest. Has his grip on her tightening, a smile drawing at the corners of his mouth.

"You're okay," he breathes again. For himself, this time, but it makes her smile, too. "You're okay, Kate, and I–" He stutters, and leans forward to smudge a kiss to her forehead, to give himself the time to calm the whirlwind of thoughts in his mind.

She squeezes at his shoulders when he pulls away, bites at her lip like she knows which words are bursting from his chest, are about to slip from his lips.

"I love you."

He says it first, watches the smile bloom across her face, feels her breath escape her parted lips, watches the flecks of gold in her eyes shine.

And she leans forward, smudges her lips against his in a kiss that lasts a second but says a thousand words.

"I love you, too," she whispers, the words quiet and breathy and lost in the wind, but trapped in his heart.

She waits a second before kissing him again, just as quick, even more gentle, and wraps her arms around his neck, lets her head fall to the cradle between his shoulder and his neck.

And his heart calms, lulled by the comfort of her in his arms, by the slow brush of his fingertips over her spine.

"Thank you," she whispers, "for coming to get me."

His eyes flutter shut, his smile pressing against her crown, sealing his promise with a kiss.

"Always."

* * *

Kate's in trouble. That much is obvious from the daggers in her captain's eyes and the frown that twists at her lips. And yet the captain doesn't sweep Kate away as soon as they get back to the precinct. Instead, Kate's the one dragging him away, to a room with slatted blinds and a glass door that's half-open.

The break room, he discovers. With a cheap coffee machine on the counter, a table and chairs and a couch that looks like it hasn't been touched in weeks. Until her hand is curling around his shoulder and shoving him down so he's sitting on one of the cushions. And she sits down next to him, her hand landing on his thigh, the other cradling his cheek as she stares at him with wide eyes.

"I owe you an explanation," she says.

His hand falls to land over hers, his fingers curling into her palm. "You don't owe me anything."

"If we're going to be together, you should know," she tells him. "After the past few months, Rick, you deserve to know."

And his mouth goes dry at the look in her eyes, the worried furrow of her brow and the silent demand that he just listen spelled out across her features. So he nods, cracking half a smile in a feeble attempt to comfort her, as his thumb drifts over hers in an endless pattern of back and forth.

She nods, probably to herself, and swallows, and looks away. "My mother was murdered when I was nineteen," she says.

He swallows back his response, the fact that he already knew her mom was killed. That she already told him as her knuckles blanched and her body swayed back and forth on a swing, just a little over a week ago now. Lets that remain unspoken and this be her moment, lets the words tumble from her lips without interruption as he holds on to every single one.

"The cops figured it was an act of random gang violence, and her killer was never caught," she continues. "But I…I never believed it was random, and I spent those first few years looking through her case obsessively, until my therapist pointed out that I was going to run myself into the ground, or kill myself. So I put it away, focused on getting justice for other families instead."

He nods, even as he feels his heart crack for her, feels his eyes burn with tears that can only be because of the thick emotion lacing her words.

"But a few years ago, I started looking into it again," she breathes. "And it upset the wrong person. And that's why I got shot."

Her head lifts from her palm, and her fingers dip to press against her sternum, to the spot where he knows her scar is. The spot he traced with his lips, breathing his gratitude for her being alive against the puckered scar, into her skin.

"I put the case away again," she whispers. "Shortly after I met you."

And that has his fingers tightening around hers, has tears prickling at his eyes.

"Today wasn't supposed to happen," she says, making him blink back his tears only to see pain making her eyes gleam, too. "And I don't know if I'm safe, Castle, so you might not…want me around, at least until I know I'm not going to get you killed."

He shakes his head, traces her thumb with his once again before lifting her hand from his thigh, to his mouth. His lips press against her knuckles, the very ones that were bone white and she clung to the roof, clung to her life.

"I'll always want you around, Kate," he whispers, his gaze drifting upwards to lock on hers. "If with me is where you want to be, Kate, considering your walls, then you're always welcome."

Her lips turn upwards, her eyes shining as she reaches forward, lets her palm curl around his jaw. "I think almost dying is just what I needed to knock them down," she says, the words lilted like a promise. "Or, at the very least, to make me realize that I don't want to sit around and wait to be with you."

She leans forward, lets her forehead kiss his, her hand sliding from his grasp to curl around his neck as he reaches for her waist, draws her closer, so his lips can brush across hers. Until pulls away, just far enough for her breath to wash across his face as she speaks.

"I've been on my own, living for this case for way too long, Castle," she whispers. "Now…I just want this. I just want you."

And her head tilts back, her mouth finding his, harder this time, more insistent, hungrier. Her thumbs drift across the ridges of his cheekbones as his lips part beneath her, letting her deepen the kiss as he draws her closer, closer, _closer,_ until she's sitting on his lap.

She pulls away, breathless, after a moment, and her thighs are straddling his, her hands curled tightly around the collar of his shirt.

"Okay?" she breathes.

He nods, drawing her back to him so he can whisper his response against her lips, into her kiss.

"Okay."

* * *

His eyes trace the lines of the precinct, the rows of desks, the words written on the whiteboard in an attempt to learn the place by heart, to commit it to memory and then to words when he gets the chance. From where he's leaning against her desk, he gets to see what she sees every day, and that weighs heavy in his mind as he waits for her.

She emerges just as he's committing the layout of the bullpen to memory once more, the jacket he'd tugged from her shoulders slung over her arm, her badge and gun missing from her hip.

She doesn't stop to say goodbye to Ryan, only offers her teammate a half-hearted smile as she walks by him. Instead, she walks straight to her desk, to him, and slides her hand into his, squeezing his fingers, asking him to follow her.

And he does, letting her lead him past the rows of desks and towards the elevator. Her finger jabs at the button to call it, the force in the action the only evidence, besides her missing badge, that everything isn't as okay as it seems.

When the doors slide open, he doesn't wait for her to drag him with her, stepping forward as soon as she does. He's the one that reaches over to hit the button to close the doors and, despite their previous indiscretion, waits until he feels the lift moving beneath his feet to wrap an arm around her shoulders and pull her close.

"Everything okay?" he asks.

She nods, her head pressed against his shoulder. "Yeah. I'm suspended for six weeks, though." Her hand comes up to rest on his chest, drifts downwards over the trail of buttons. "I guess that means I won't have any stories to inspire you for a little while."

He dusks a kiss to her forehead at that, squeezing her shoulder gently. "Kate," he breathes, drawing back so his gaze can lock on hers, "it was never the stories I found inspiring. It was you." His other hand drifts towards her, wraps around her hip. "Always you."

She smiles, just the slightest upturn of the corners of her mouth as her fingers splay across his side. "When I was hanging from the roof, all I could think about was you." Her cheek lands on his shoulder.

He feels the tension leave her shoulders, her spine. The adrenaline of the day leaving her, the arousal their earlier kisses had stoked fading, leaving her nestled against him.

Until she's pulling away, her the hand that had been splayed over his rib cage comes up to curl around his jaw, tilting his head towards hers. "I almost died, and all I could think about was you," she whispers. "That I would never get to tell you how much I love you, and that you've knocked down my walls faster than I thought was possible. I was afraid I'd never get to kiss you again."

"Well, now you can," he tells her.

And she does, pressing her mouth against his, her lips already parted, her tongue tracing the seam of his mouth. His hand drifts down her spine so both can curl around her hips, draw her tighter against him, even as the ding of the elevator, announcing their arrival at the lobby, rings in his ears.

She's the one that pulls away, stumbling back ever so slightly, her eyes fluttering closed.

"You tired?" he asks.

She shrugs. "A little," she says. "It's been a long day."

He grins, reaching forward to take her hand in his. "Okay then," he breathes, "we can always just cuddle."

She narrows her eyes at that, steps towards him even as the doors threaten to close, as the elevator threatens to spur back into motion. Her free hand lands on his hip, drifting down so her fingertips graze across his crotch and his eyes slam closed, only to flutter open again as he feels her pulling away.

Her hand lands on the button to open the doors, her gaze still locked on him, a grin tugging at her cheeks.

"There is no way that's happening," she says. And her hand is slipping from him as she walks away, takes a few steps only to turn back to face him. "You coming, Castle?"

He smiles, and follows, catching her hand in his as soon as he finds his place at her side. Of course he is. He'd follow her anywhere.

* * *

 **The End.**

* * *

 **I would like to thank everyone who took the time to read, favorite, follow and/or review this story. You guys kept me going through bouts of writer's block and confusion. I'm glad you guys enjoyed, and hope this final chapter is satisfactory, and love you all.**

 **I would also like to thank Lindsey for her extraordinary amount of help with this story. From helping me brainstorm, to helping me time important plot points, catching my face-palm worthy mistakes as a beta reader and encouraging me when I was down. XX.  
**

 **Callie**


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